


(1) New Message

by TokyoRose_2006



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Cybersex, Dom/sub, Drama, Edgeplay, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining, Romance, Rope Bondage, Sadism, Sex Toys, Slow Burn, Spanking, Teasing, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-04-17 15:03:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 57,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14191563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TokyoRose_2006/pseuds/TokyoRose_2006
Summary: Jim Kirk had been warned his entire life not to trust people that he met online. Now, he was beginning to think he should have listened.





	1. (1) New Message

**Author's Note:**

> Sup, y'all. 
> 
> I've been writing fanfics for years now, but this is actually my first attempt at entering the Star Trek fandom. This story is not really all that planned out, and if you're looking for comfortably formulaic, consistently updated content, it ain't here for ya. I won't promise much if any fluff, and overall it's a pretty dark themed story with a healthy dose of lighthearted dialogue and friendship. I like bad jokes as much as I like angst, so be prepared for a pretty wild ride. 
> 
> PSA: IF YOU ARE HERE FOR A ROBOTIC, UNFEELING, TWO DIMENSIONAL SPOCK THEN LEAVE. 
> 
> I've seen it, I've read it, and I hate it. My characters are very much based on the latent characterizations of The Original Series and I'm not going to do too much to change that. Don't waste your time flaming me about my Spock. The only things he doesn't do is giggle and use contractions, so if you have an issue with him being an actual living being, go on and scoot on outta here. 
> 
> That being said, the only other warnings I have is that this story delves a lot into a BDSM-centered relationship, and as such will often have features, scenes, and details that can be difficult for some to read if unfamiliar with the Scene. Please see the warnings if that is the case. I'll be doing my best as well to make sure that content warnings appear in the notes before every chapter. If I miss anything, please let me know, as I take CWs very seriously. 
> 
> Otherwise, please enjoy! I'll do my best to update pretty consistently, but life gets hectic sometimes, even for fangirls. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not I do not own rights to any Star Trek title or media iteration; they remain the intellectual property of Gene Roddenberry. I do not profit in any way from the creation of this work.
> 
> *Content Warnings*: BDSM, Teasing, Masturbation, Voyeurism, Webcam/Virtual Sex, Drinking, Possessive Dom

James Tiberius Kirk threw his satchel onto his bed with a ferocity that few knew lie dormant within his lithe frame. With the flat of his clunky, Starfleet-issue boots, he kicked the door to his apartment shut with a similarly unnecessary level of force. Stomping toward the apartment’s small kitchen, the young man wrenched free the buttons on his Starfleet cadet uniform, managing to pull one of them free in his fervor and simultaneously scratch himself in the process.

 

“GOD DAMN IT!”

 

James fumed as he entered the kitchen and, rather than politely request that his Replicator produce a cold beer, he opted instead to let his forehead collide with it painfully, albeit with a highly satisfying _thunk._ His hands balled at his sides, the man lifted his head a few inches, only to allow it to fall back against the Replicator again. And again. And again. And once more for good measure. Once the dull ache in his forehead began to permeate his eye sockets and wrap around his cranium, Kirk let out a slow, steadying breath and turned his head slightly, allowing the cool metal of the kitchen appliance to wick away some of the sting from his head and the heat from his cheeks.

 

Without bothering to open his eyes, Kirk groped about the smooth face of the machine until he found the touchscreen and pressed his fingers to it in exactly the right sequence until...ah, yes. The familiar sound of a glass being filled with what Kirk sorely hoped was Aldebaran Whiskey wafted to his ears. The stuff tasted like fire and self-loathing, and today was a day that had definitely already left Kirk with the taste of brimstone and diffidence in his mouth. He reached for it blindly, and only to take the first searing sip did he lift his now throbbing head from the chilly surface of the Replicator.

 

It was awful. Terrible. Kirk could feel his body attempting to gag in order to reject the blatant assault on his well-being. The lukewarm beverage somehow burned itself a path from his tongue to his toes before he had even swallowed. He shivered, he coughed, and he swallowed. And then he did it again. And again. And once more for good measure. Once drained, Kirk set the glass by the sink in case he decided to go back more, ever the masochist that he was, and let out a sound between a groan and a cough as he left the kitchen.

 

Kirk continued to undress, albeit more carefully, as he made his way toward his bedroom. As he pulled his uniform top over his head, Kirk noticed with a wry smile to himself that doing so was slightly harder for him than it should have been, given just the one drink. _Then again_ , he thought with a shrug, _it_ is _Aldebaran Whiskey._ He tossed the jacket and soon after, the undershirt somewhere in the vicinity of his bed before plopping down in his computer chair. What he really wanted was a nice faceplant into his duvet, but he knew that with the day he had had, sleep was likely to be elusive.

 

With a sigh, Kirk closed his eyes and leaned his head back into the soft material of his headrest, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

“Alright, Computer, what do you have for me today?”

 

Kirk’s console lit up with a series of small sounds and green lights. He’d programmed it to respond only with his favorite color and to recognize his less that regulation personal commands. He recognized the sound of his comminator mail blip first.

 

“Go ahead.”

 

The console repeated the blip, and a familiar voice began to fill the room.

 

“Hi, uh, Jim? It’s Jim, right? Maybe, I don’t know, James? Uh, this is Dee’Ahn, ah, from--from Risa? I had a great time the other night, and, well, I was just--”

 

Jim recoiled more powerfully than he had from his whiskey. “Uh, no, absolutely not.”

 

The console repeated its blip. “ _This message will be sorted into your archive for--_ ”

 

“Ugh, don’t bother.”

 

“ _Message deleted._ ”

 

Jim shook his head, as if doing so could free him of the memory of one of the worst hook-ups he had ever attempted. _Man, some things just_ are _more important than a pretty face. Woof._ He was pulled from his musings by another voice, much less hesitant in nature.

 

“Jim? Bones. Listen, I know you’re upset. Hell, I would’ve been too if those pencil pushers at Starfleet had come at me the way they did to you. But listen, man, you’ve got to pull yourself together. Don’t go out and do anything you’ll regret. I can’t always bail you out, kid. I know how much ya hate to lose, but sometimes--”

 

“Delete.”

 

Blip. “ _Message deleted.”_

 

Jim rubbed at the bridge of his nose with more force than necessary.

 

“Anything else?”

 

There was a moment of silence, and then the console flashed green again and let out two rapid chirps. Kirk’s hand froze, fingers still pressed to his eyes. At the sound of the familiar notification, a spark of something very much like excitement lit up in his chest.

 

“ _Application: Offworldr. 3 New Messages.”_

Jim sat up in his chair and pulled himself closer to his console desk. The familiar Offworldr icon was flashing in the top right center of the screen, a small black and green planet encircled by forking gold Mars and Venus symbols, floating innocuously above the coursework that he had been cramming that morning. A light smirk quirked his lips as he pressed lightly on the icon and watched as the star maps and command notes he’d been reading instantly disappeared and were replaced with a deep purple background with a larger icon in the center; the Offworldr homepage.

 

“Tiberius Rex 9866,” Jim announced reflexively.

 

“ _Welcome, Jim,”_ the deep, sensuous timbre of the program greeted him as the page began to bleed away and was replaced with the familiar green and black of Jim’s homescreen.

Finally, Jim began to feel the knot in his stomach unravel for the first time that day. His day had been a world renowned mess, frustrating and convoluted, but this he understood. This he knew. As he should, since it had been part of his nightly ritual for nearly a year now.

 

By  the end of his first year at Starfleet, Jim had already accepted that the Command track that he was pushing himself to complete in record time would in no way, shape, or form, leave room for a healthy social life. At least, not healthy by his standards. He had managed despite this, to establish a reputation on campus as a bit of a playboy. This was not a facet of his life that Jim at all attempted to shy away from; on the contrary, it was that reputation that had led him to meet some of his closest friends since he’d joined up. Jim reminisced fondly on his friendship with Bones, the campus doctor, at the thought, and how he’d only gotten to know him so well due to his strict schedule of screenings for sexually transmitted diseases that first year in school. _It is hard not to grow fond of someone when you see them every two weeks with your pants down_ , Jim mused.

 

However, while Jim had grown rather fond of his double digit “body count,” his near constant trolling of the local campus and city bars, nightclubs, and weddings (yes, weddings) had begun to take a marked effect on his academic life. Enter Offworldr. Or rather, enter, Hikaru Sulu. Jim’s first semester barracks roommate was easily one of the least scrupulous people that Jim had ever met. While he was stalwart in his dedication to The Federation, his Japanese heritage, and his sense of duty and honor, Jim was convinced that during those early semesters, Sulu spent more time in bed than in class. It was...impressive, to say the least.

 

When Jim had finally cracked after the twelfth consecutive day he’d watched Sulu pull a new (and flushed) young man into their dorm room for a good ol’ roll in the hay, and asked him how he met and had the time (and stamina) for so many suitors, Sulu had only shrugged and said that he had met them on Offworldr, a console program designed to help Starfleet members and other ex-patriots find each other while away from home. Jim had been skeptical to say the least, but his curiosity was piqued, and one night when Sulu was (blessedly) out on a date, Jim had created a profile and decided to poke around on the program to see what it was all about.

Offworldr worked much like the facebooks of old, where anyone, anywhere, could anonymously view and rate profiles of other people. If the ratings you gave and the ratings you received were compatible on enough points, then you were given the option to freely communicate with the profile that had rated you well, and vice versa. For a closet narcissist like JIm, it was love at first double tap. He, unsurprisingly, chose to create an avatar that looked exactly like him. Well, perhaps very much like him with slightly higher muscle tone and several inches taller. (The vast majority of Offworldr users did the same, but it was not required to make a profile, so there was always a chance that things were not as they seemed.) Not long after, he had begun to receive messages left and right from other avatars and profiles, and the rest, as they say, was history.

 

Jim scrolled along the updates and notifications on his homescreen until he came to his personal message inbox. He quickly double tapped the small, green Private Message icon which had immediately risen from the console and had begun to spin in a small circle, projected just above the surface of the console screen. Immediately, three avatars filled the screen, each with a small red dot above their heads.

 

The first was new, and took Jim nearly a full minute of squinting to clearly discern. What he had thought was a a picture of an empty, tackily decorated bed slowly began to appear to him as an occupied tackily decorated bed. The unattractive green of the sheets and the large, frilly, heart-shaped headboard distracted the eye from the occupant, who was a seemingly humanoid woman with skin the exact hue of the bedsheets, bizarrely endowed with breasts that seemed impossible for her frame to support. The woman had curly veridian hair and was completely nude. The image did little to entice Jim’s libido, but his curiosity led him to tap on the avatar to open the message.

 

**GreenWithEnvyxXx: I’m Gaila. You look like a mighty fine example of a human male. Care to dance? <3**

 

Kirk blinked several times before reading the message again.

 

“Certainly to the point, aren’t you, Ms. Gaila?”

 

Kirk blanched when he noticed that the words he had spoken had begun to fill the chat bubble that had appeared as soon as he had opened Gaila’s message. He waved his hand over the bubble to clear it and was prepared to move on to his next message when he stopped. _Aren’t Orions supposed to be world-renowned lovers?_ a serpentine voice in his head whispered. Kirk spent a moment eyeing the avatar up and down. _Well..._ It had been just over a month since his last sexual encounter, and that was a near eternity in James T. Kirk time. He hesitated for a moment longer before clearing his throat and speaking his reply, which appeared in the bubble as the words left his mouth.

 

**JTK3045.6: I hear dancing is an Orion specialty. I’m flattered that you think I can keep up.**

 

Jim shrugged as he told the program to send his message. “Best case scenario, I get mauled by a horny Orion, worst case scenario, I get mauled by someone else,” he muttered, as he flicked the screen to the left, pulling up the next new message.

 

The avatar that accompanied the message was the near complete opposite of the first. It depicted an average-looking humanoid male in a thigh-length tunic of a muted navy and starched khaki pants. Although he was digitally rendered, Kirk couldn’t help but get the sense that the man was nervous. Jim tapped the avatar anyway, vaguely curious.

 

**BlueBejal: Hello. My name is Bejal. You are very handsome, if you don’t mind my saying. Would you maybe like to get a drink sometime? If you’re free?**

 

A soft part of Kirk’s heart stirred as he read over the awkward wording. He knew that he was completely uninterested in the offer, but part of him wanted to accept, if only to keep the poor thing from crying. “Besides,” he mused as he surveyed the drab avatar. “He’s not _terrible_ looking. And those little spots are sorta cute.”

 

Jim mulled it over for another few seconds before deciding that his soft spot was not going to win out today, and flicked over to the next message, which immediately brought to mind significantly harder spots. The final message was from an avatar that he recognized immediately. Jim gripped the armrests of his computer chair and shifted in his seat to accommodate the sudden stirring he felt in his pants. He tapped the icon and the message opened.

 

**3372.7.159.67: Are you available this evening?**

 

Kirk could feel his mouth go dry. Of course he was. And even if he wasn’t he was. He knew that the question only meant one thing, and it was something he desperately wanted. His eyes raked over the familiar digital image as if for the first time, as they did every time he saw it. The avatar stood aloof, hands behind its back, in a crisp, but tight-fitting black turtleneck, the cut of the garment accentuating broad shoulders, full biceps, and a trim waist. Said waist tapered into long, similarly muscled legs in tailored black slacks. A fiercely handsome face with a smooth, impassive expression glanced serenely back at him. It was a nearly perfect face, with severely pointed black eyebrows just below a stark line of glossy black bangs. But the cherry on top of this handsome sundae, in Jim’s opinion, were the sharply pointed ears jutting just through the curtain of hair.

 

It was those ears, among other things, that had driven Jim to first contact 3372.7.159.67 in the first place. He smiled at the memory of doing so as it hazily played in the background of his mind. Now that he was musing, Jim realized that it had been nearly six months since he had begun exchanging messages with the mysterious avatar, whom he began to call 33 shortly after their first few messages. Six long, interesting months. Jim smirked as he recorded his response.

 

**JTK3045.6: Sure. It’s been a rough day. I could use a bit of a distraction.**

 

“Send.”

 

The console flashed once to let him know his message was sent, and Kirk relaxed back into his chair, letting his mind wander as he waited for the response that he knew would come shortly. He mused silently about the strange circumstances that had led him to where he was now, not just shirtless and increasingly excited in front of his console, but in his life.

 

He had come to Starfleet rather young, directionless, frustrated by life and by circumstance, completely bereft of friends and loved ones to help him in his difficult transition from boy to man. Upon entry to the Academy, he had gained access to a level of freedom and level of constraint so simultaneously overwhelming that he struggled at first to gain footing, and as a result of that struggle regularly found himself in a fair degree of trouble. One spot of trouble in particular swirled up from his subconscious and with it a host of emotions he had not pondered in a quite some time.

 

Barely halfway through one of Jim’s many instigated barfights, he had dodged a punch from a surly Cardassian and had just thrown the entirety of his weight into a retaliatory right hook before noticing, tragically just a moment too late, that he had missed, sending his fist crashing into the sweet face of a beautiful woman with the largest mane of auburn hair he had ever seen. Jim had immediately begun to apologize and began to ask if she was hurt, only to receive a headbutt to the nose that immediately robbed him of his consciousness.

 

He had awoken in a bed sometime later. Slowly, carefully, Jim had blinked open his eyes to see a hazy blur of auburn and feel a stabbing pain in one of his eyes. He closed the eye causing the pain and tried again with the other, this time managing to render the image of a beautiful face, with features that seemed oddly feline. He recognized the woman’s rapidly forming black eye before the rest of her face and immediately attempted to reach out and apologize, only to find that his wrists were tethered to the headboard. He had tried again to free himself, only to hear a deep purring resonate from the woman and feel what he imagined to be a soft, furry finger trail down his chest, which he then realized was bare.

 

“Rest, young one,” she had said then, in a tone that was equal parts venom and honey. “You are safe now. Sleep and recover,” she trailed clawed hands down Kirk’s bare sides, raising gooseflesh in their wake. “And then we shall see if  you accept pain as eagerly as you administer it.”

 

M’Ress had freed him after that, and given him a hypospray for the pain. She attended to his needs in a strangely kind way, and explained that she had taken him home when she could not find any identification on his person. She hadn’t wanted to get him in trouble with Starfleet, so she had brought him to her home to sleep off the fight. He was grateful. And she was beautiful. And so it began.

 

For the last half of his second semester and much of his second year at Starfleet Academy, Jim split his time between courses, homework, and M’Ress’s lessons in pain. It was all new to him, but, true to her word, M’Ress kept him occupied and out of trouble, effectively keeping him safe, and consistently tested the limits of what he believed he was capable of withstanding. He learned quickly, and grew to desire her stern and painful form of affection almost instantly. She was sure to tell him often that he was a natural at taking what she gave, and learning how to give back what was expected.

 

It had come as somewhat of a surprise to him, his knack for submission, but M’Ress had seen it in him immediately. That night in the bar, she had told him, she had seen a bright and shining beacon of potential; poised, roguishly handsome, clever, and strong. But she had also sensed his instability, the duality of his nature warring with itself and keeping him from achieving what he seemed destined to reach. It had been why she felt compelled to intervene in the fight, to keep him from ruining his future. And she had been right. Caitians did have impeccable instincts, after all. And that was why she had decided to offer Jim a chance to learn to center himself, balance his emotion and his ability, learn to submit in order to truly lead. That, and his thick head of golden hair and meticulously sculpted body.

 

Theirs was a strange affair, but a thing of beauty in its own right. And soon, M’Ress told Jim that he had learned what she could teach, and that their arrangement should come to an end. Jim had agreed, though sorely, and was grateful to have learned more about himself, his needs, his sexuality, and his potential. They still stayed in touch from time to time, but it was largely non-sexual, like getting a hail from a distant relative. While Kirk had been glad of his time under M’Ress, he found that standard relations, even strictly sexual, were difficult for him to want. Between his ever-increasing course load and desire for something akin to what he and M’Ress had shared, Jim had begun to feel a loneliness that he had not experienced since before the Academy. Enter Offworldr. And 33.

 

The two concurrent chirps of the Offworldr message notification disrupted his train of thought. He shook his head as if to dispel the memories and their associated emotions and looked back at his console screen, clicking 33’s avatar to open his newest message:

 

**3372.7.159.67: I do not wish to function as a mere distraction for you. If you require time to clear your mind, you may contact me when you are available both physically and emotionally.**

 

Jim read the message three times to make sure that he understood correctly, and scoffed indignantly.

 

**JTK3045.6: That’s not what I meant and you know it. It was...a hard day for me. I’d like to have something else on my mind. Like you.**

 

Jim gave his console the command to send his message and made to recline again in his seat and then thought better of it. 33, for all of his hopelessly diplomatic jargon, was clearly upset. And when 33 was angry, he was surprisingly pliable for a person with such a seemingly guarded grip over their emotions. Jim leaned forward in his chair and scooted closer to the console. He cleared his throat to help it slip into a huskier, almost combative tone.

 

 **JTK3045.6: In fact, you’ve been on my mind all day. I was hoping you’d message me earlier, but I guess you’ve been** **_busy._ **

 

Jim was sure to accentuate the last word with an angry, childish tone before he continued.

 

**JTK3045.6: And my head’s not the only part thinking about you…**

**JTK2045.6: I can show you if you want?**

 

Kirk sent his new messages, and then immediately pressed one hand to the crotch of his pants, stroking himself, and used the other to open his console’s camera and send a picture of his hand cupping the bulge now straining against his palm to 33. He knew it was unlikely to get the response he was looking for, but it was always a fun little game for him to see how he could push the other man’s buttons. A minute or two passed before he got his response.

 

**3372.7.159.67 declined your photo message.**

 

Jim smirked as he opened the two messages that had appeared immediately after the first.

**3372.7.159.67: I will not be swayed by your puerile attempts to placate my previous disinterest in acting as a distraction for you.**

**3372.7.159.67: In regard to your previous assumption that I was unable to contact you due to my level of activity, I must inform you that this was incorrect. I simply lacked the interest to do so.**

 

The smirk slid from Jim’s face as he read and reread the messages, a strange feeling between desire and dejection swirling in his gut alongside the combination of desire and anticipation slowly feeding his growing erection. He pushed away the discomfiting thought that 33 didn’t want to talk to him and closed his eyes, allowing the heel of his palm to grind pleasurably against the bulge in his pants. He bit his lip at the sensation and spoke again to his console.

 

“New audio transmission,” he breathed, increasing the pressure against his groin.

 

A small communicator icon appeared next to the chat bubble that had previously been blank. Kirk stilled his breathing, making the room almost completely silent, quiet enough that the console could pick up the sound of him slowly pulling down his zipper.

 

“Come on, now. Don’t say things you don’t mean. We both know you’re fucking crazy about me.”

 

He made sure to rustle his pants noisily as he pulled them down and let them drop them to the floor.

 

“Don’t you want to play?”

 

Jim began to pump himself lazily, groaning softly and deliberately adding the keening quality to his voice that so often awarded him what he wanted.

 

“I promise I’ll be good. Send.”

 

With no small level of self-control, Jim ceased his ministrations and watched the screen. The response took only about 30 seconds this time.

 

**3372.7.159.67 has seen your audio message.**

**3372.7.159.67 has opened your audio message.**

 

Several minutes passed before the next message arrived, during which Jim had continued to touch himself in hopes that his plan hadn’t backfired. He cracked one eye open at the sound of the double chirp and tapped the message to open it.

 

**3372.7.159.67: And on the basis of what evidence am I expected to believe your claim that you will “be good”? To my recollection, I have been unable to reward you for appropriate behavior for the past 15.4 days.**

 

Jim smiled at that, fully prepared to retort when another message followed directly after the first.

 

**3372.7.159.67: In fact, I am confident in my own assertion that you are misbehaving currently. It is most likely that you are in blatant violation of Rule Number 5.**

 

Jim chuckled as he opened his camera and sent a short video, this time of his fist wrapped snugly around his already leaking cock and pumping lazily. He followed with a short text message.

 

**JTK3045.6: Whatever makes you say that?**

 

Jim watched the display, waiting for confirmation that his message had been received and opened, but noticed that his eyelids were growing increasingly heavy with each rise and fall of his hand. His desire to be recalcitrant and vindictive slowly began to falter in the face of his desire to cum, a reality which he noticed with some chagrin to be approaching much more quickly than he would have liked. Despite his efforts, Jim’s eyes slid shut, his brow pinched as he stroked himself faster. His teeth found the yielding flesh of his full bottom lip, and bit down sharply. The minor jolt of pain seemed to travel directly from his mouth to his cock, and Jim’s hips lifted from the chair, pushing the increasingly warm leather of his computer chair backward from his desk and allowing his hand to move more freely.

 

He felt the telltale coil of heat in his belly that warned him that he was nearing his end just as his console lit up with the double chirp of a message. And another. Jim worried his lip harder, eyebrows knitting into a scowl as his hips slowly lowered. He forced his hand to slow, loosening his grip and bringing his fist back toward the base of his erection before squeezing himself tightly for good measure. With a frustrated grunt, Jim let his head fall backward and hang just slightly over the back of his chair, eyes closed.

 

“Computer, open new messages.”

 

The console made a quiet chirp of assent and the prerecorded voice provided by the program began to read the message aloud dispassionately.

 

“ _The following is a list of rules agreed upon by all parties present, and are in no way definitive or exhaustive of the expectations set for those applicable. Rule number one: The submissive may at any time execute any and all scenes and/or tasks regardless of extenuation or level of completion by speaking his safeword or words. Rule number two: The submissive will adhere to all commands made by the dominant at present as well as foregoing in minute and fastidious detail unless said commands violate the agreed upon parameters or unless the safeword or words are uttered. Rule number three: The submissive will not under any circumstance question the decisions or commands of the dominant at any time unless given leave to do so or unless unsure for his own safety or ability to perform said command. Rule number four: The submissive will not perform penetrative sex acts of any kind without the dominant’s express approval and explicit permission, neither by penetrating or being penetrated, applicable to every orifice. Rule number five: The submissive will not engage in masturbatory activities of any kind without the dominant’s express approval and explicit permission, including but not limited to--_ ”

 

“Yeah, yeah, ok. Next,” Jim growled. Despite his annoyance at yet _again_ being reminded of the rules of his and 33’s “arrangement,” Jim couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips. He squeezed the base of his erection again to gauge how close he still was and decided against continuing. Instead, Jim dragged his fingers in a maddeningly featherlight caress upward, stroking his rigid shaft with just enough pressure to cause that familiar heat to spark. He could feel his hips moving slowly undulating against the leather chair in a redundant show of desire for more.

 

Jim cracked an eye open to stare at the cool slate ceiling of his room and rubbed the pad of his thumb around the weeping slit of his cock. He spread the viscous liquid there roughly across the swollen head and fought the desire to close his eyes again and fuck his fist like he hadn’t since puberty, instead allowing the familiar textured pattern of the ceiling to calm him just enough to pull back. With no small amount of self-control, Jim lifted his head from the back of his chair and cast a glance at his cock and the shining trail on his fingers. He bit his lip again to bolster his rapidly waning control, and turned hazy green eyes to his display..

 

It was a photo message from 33. Jim swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat as his eyes roved over the screen. Photo messages from the other man were very rare, and when they came, it was always a means to convey a very specific purpose or direct command. This, as it turned out, was no exception. The image itself was on its surface relatively innocuous. 33, of course, from collarbone to hip, shirtless against an unremarkable background of a seemingly similar material and color to Jim’s own. The light in the room was fairly dim, casting faint shadows across the hollows of 33’s clavicles. A dense yet tidy thatch of fine black hair covered a chest that was lithe, yet defined, and tapered down into an enticing trail through his muscled abdomen, leading somewhere perennially offscreen.

 

Jim’s eyes drank in the sight hungrily, lingering on the pebbled olive-colored nipples and the smoothly sculpted abdominal muscles. He followed the lines of 33’s similarly muscled arms down toward thin wrists and the part of 33 that Jim loathed and loved to see in equal measure: his hands. There was something perplexingly alluring about his hands, and Jim was no closer at present to discerning what it was than he had been the first time the thought had struck him. Perhaps it was the regal quality in how he always held them, or the smooth curve of his palm. Was it the way his fingers seemed simultaneously wicked and delicate? Or maybe the sage tint to his palms? In this case, Jim gathered that the quality of 33’s hands that commanded his attention most was the small, black item curled within his fingers, nestled against his right palm.

 

An electric thrill ricocheted through Jim’s chest and settled in his stomach as hot, aching longing so suddenly that a quiet moan escaped him. His hand tightened around his cock, now nearly painfully erect, and groaned at how close just that small action pushed him toward the edge. Such a small thing, part of his lust-filled mind tried to reason, should not have such an effect on him, but his body knew better than to argue.

 

In their early days of communication, Jim and 33 had had a number of platonic conversations about their strengths, interests, and to some extent, their daily lives. Jim felt safely confident that disclosing that he attended Starfleet Academy and had a relative interest in computers was vague enough not to allow 33 to discern who he was in real life, and he had been correct. Further, learning that 33 shared his affinity for Federation technology and its complex systems of programs and functions had been one of the many topics of conversation that led to the strengthening of their initial almost-friendship. Once their relationship had taken a less wholesome turn, however, it had been Jim’s idea to apply their shared knowledge of technology to their more adult interactions. A choice that he unendingly regretted and revelled in.

 

As it were, Jim’s suggestion of how to utilize their knowledge became one of his first official commands from 33: to build an apparatus for his own use which 33 could control remotely. Never one to shy away from a challenge, Jim had gone above and beyond and, over the course of a few weeks, single-handedly designed and built a vibrating toy (here he applied his own _specific_ preferred dimensions) complete with coded controls, which he sent to 33. From there it was a simple feat for 33 to build a small, handheld transmitter that allowed him to command the toy with instant and precise control.

 

It was exactly that transmitter that he held in his hand, and that sent concurrent waves of lust and longing throughout Kirk’s body. Logically, the man knew that he should immediately stop pleasuring himself and instead reach for the corresponding toy in his desk drawer. His mind, though largely distracted, recognized that there was a direct course of action that the image on his console intended to inspire in him, but the slick fingers now riddling his body with pleasure seemed to be acting of their own accord. Then again, self-control had never been his strong suit.

 

Jim groaned, eyes falling closed yet again as he realized that that was _exactly_ the point. His body was primed for release, begging to let his pleasure and frustration culminate in a warm, wet splash of satiation against his chest and stomach. His mind was a frenzy of wanton sounds and images, lust-filled memories and cloying fantasies all dripping with lascivious keenness. It was maddening, the raucous, burning need within him coupled with the insistent barrage of sights, sounds, and sensations. The closer he came to satisfying himself, the more Jim became aware that the only thing that he craved more than release, more than the carnal acquisition of pleasure, was submission.  

 

The thought alone was enough to make desire coil tightly in his gut, spring-loaded and ready to snap. It had been that simple concept, that he not only enjoyed but required submission to completely experience pleasure, that had been the ever-present current that ran throughout his extensive relationship with M’Ress. His body had wavered under her cruel seductions almost immediately, but his mind had held out, stubborn as always, until finally he could deny it no longer. He, James Kirk, the headstrong, fearless, brilliant Jack of all trades, was freest only when bound, strongest when deliberately weakened, most at peace when in a state of constant fear. It was that knowledge that had driven him into 33’s beguiling hands, and what stilled his hand to a begrudging stop.

 

Suddenly, the anger and exhaustion of his difficult day began to once again gnaw and needle at him. He realized, as his frustration bled across his hunger, that he needed this, needed the distinct and unique pain and pleasure that 33 gave him, and more importantly the peace it would help him find. The keen longing dashing up his spine slowed to a languid trickle, like warm honey dripping down his chest to settle, dense and shapeless in the pit of his stomach. Jim let out a slow, rattling breath as he recognized the familiar sensation of his mind beginning to unravel. He could feel his grip slipping, that firmly held grasp with which he desperately clung to his pride, his frustrations, his obstinance, his morals, and his fear. His trademark bravado, unwavering, unquestioning, slid from his mind into the ether, and a familiar  desire filled its wake. The desire to please, to be comforted, the yearn for safety in another’s control, trust in another’s ability to push him out of himself in into somewhere warmer, wetter, more well-deserved.

 

A soft double chirp from his console brought Jim back to the present. Breaths still coming in shallow huffs, Jim quietly instructed the computer to open the new message, eyes shut tight against his own anticipation.

 

“ _Do not keep me waiting.”_

 

33’s voice rang throughout the room, the familiar stern, crisp, strangely warm sound causing Jim’s back to arch involuntarily away from his chair, and his breath to hitch in a quiet gasp. First a photo message, and now an audio message, an even rarer occurrence. And in the same night. Jim’s hands shot out toward the desk drawer just below his console. He groped within the dark recess until he found what he was looking for, and slammed the drawer shut in his haste. He shuddered to feel it in his hand, the thick, black toy that he had created, the tool with which he knew he could treat and torture himself at 33’s behest. A powerful thrum of longing echoed in his gut, and he quietly instructed the computer to send a video message.

 

Instinctively, Jim rested his elbows on his thighs in order to hold the toy at chest height, flat in his palms, as he knew 33 expected of him. Just before the computer captured the image, however, a singular, streaking vestige of the Jim Kirk that had enticed 33 thus far shot through his mind. Through the haze of straining want, a small, devious smile turned up the corner of Kirk’s bite-swollen lips, and he raised the toy toward them, opening his mouth wide and settling it softly against his tongue. He waited a moment, until he began to feel a wet drop of saliva drip toward his chin, and tapped on the icon to take and send the picture.

 

A cool sort of thrill shot through him at this last act of insubordination. Despite the fact that 33 had willingly initiated the next step of their little game, Jim, even as he slid away from himself, always found that he drew great pleasure in knowing that the other man was captivated by him, caught hook, line, and sinker. And this was sure to do the trick. Jim chuckled softly, the action making him more aware of the weight and texture of the object in his mouth. Its velvety surface seemed to stroke his tongue without moving, and the double flare at his tip rubbed tantalizingly at his lips, coaxing them closed around the welcome intrusion. His hands pushed the toy forward, deeper into the slick cavern of his mouth almost of their own accord, and his lips and tongue gladly shifted to accommodate.

Jim’s tongue slid around the object skillfully as he slowly began to thrust it shallowly between his lips. His eyes slid closed and immediately the dark space behind his eyelids was filled with the imagined image of him on his knees before 33, sucking his cock in earnest as he gave warm, harsh commands of faster, slower, harder. The clipped manner of Vulcan speech made it nearly impossible for Jim to discern the mood of the faceless man dominating him, and was unyielding in its placidity and even keel, despite the ferocity with which his body was handled. It was impossible to know if he was pleasing or not, and the lack of validation drove Jim even deeper into his own mind, farther from the strong, sure person he knew himself otherwise to be, and closer to the place of peace and freedom somewhere deep within him.

 

Jim stroked the firm ridges along the shaft of the toy with his fingers. There were five in total spanning the length of the toy from just beneath the second flare at the head to just above the base, each slightly firmer than the last. His fingers pushed the toy forward, nudging the first ridge against his lips, just as it began to vibrate aggressively. The shock of the sudden movement made Jim’s hand slip, pushing the toy completely into his mouth, scraping his lips and the roof of his mouth painfully and making him gag. Coughing, he smoothed his hand against his chest to seize its convulsions as his console chirped for his attention.

 

Jim looked up at the console screen to see that 33 had requested a video chat with him. He cleared his throat and took several long, deep breaths in order to soothe both his sore throat and his sorer pride before tapping the icon to accept the call. A small holofeed of Jim opened at the top left corner of the screen, showing him, as always, from the collarbones down. The rest of the screen, however, was completely black. Jim felt a pang of apprehension when the screen did not fill with a feed of 33 as it always had during their rare video chats. Was this a new type of punishment? Had there been technical difficulties? Should he wait, or try messaging 33 again?

 

_“It seems that you are in a most incorrigible state this evening.”_

 

Jim’s eyelids fluttered at the cool sound of 33’s voice. A sudden burst of comfort warmed his chest, assuaging his previous apprehension. It bubbled to excitement bordering on giddiness as Jim thought about what the man had in store for him, a fresh jolt of arousal crashing through him as he realized that though he could not see 33, the other man would be watching him. He swallowed, and the lingering soreness in his throat made his hips rise from his chair just so.

 

“I’m sorry, Sir, I was just--”

 

_“Hizhuk, s’cavat.”_

 

Jim’s teeth clacked together as if the phrase were a magic spell rather than a gruff command. There was a leashed heat behind the order, just a small hint of roughness to the sound that was thrillingly new to Jim’s ears. A soft shiver wracked his frame, and he bit his lip in response and anticipation. The moment after the words were spoken, they appeared in small, green text down the left side of the screen, just below the holofeed of Jim’s torso, and the universal translator picked up on the phrase, doing what Jim’s most recent xenolinguistics course had rendered unnecessary, and spelling out the words in English below.

 

Quiet, whore.

 

“Ha, Osu.”

 

Jim’s response was automatic. Though his Vulcan was limited, he had ended his last xeno course nearly conversationally fluent in the difficult language, a very impressive feat he had pulled off through numerous gruelling hours of tutoring at the hands of a devastatingly beautiful Bantu woman he had hoped to impress. His efforts had failed to move her, but he was grateful for them now. His eyes flitted to the chat feed, scanning just to be sure he hadn’t faltered in his pronunciation. It had been some time since he and 33 had last spoken.

 

Yes, Sir.

 

The beat of quiet that followed was tense, and Jim thought that he could hear the faintest hint of movement from across the sound feed before 33 spoke again.

 

_“I have neither the time nor interest in enumerating the ways in which you have failed as a submissive over the course of the past 15.4 days.”_

 

A pang of guilt stabbed at Jim’s chest, in an instant joined by resentment, dejection, and something that felt distinctly similar to poutiness.

 

_“However, you have made a particularly grievous miscalculation in your conception of my patience this evening. A miscalculation that leads me to believe that you are in need of being reminded of your place.”_

 

Jim swallowed anxiously. Nothing about that statement seemed to bode well for him, and his sudden sense of dread outweighed the way that way that the man’s words rankled the languishing vestiges of his pride.

 

_“Empty your hands. Then, hold them up so that your palms are facing the screen.”_

 

Jim nodded and cast his eyes downward out of habit. He placed the toy, still glistening with his saliva, on the desk. His fingers hovered over it for a fleeting moment before he raised them as instructed.

 

_“I see that you have not completely lost your ability to heed instruction. For that at least, you should be grateful.”_

 

Warmth began to gather in Jim’s cheeks, and he was suddenly glad that his head was bowed.

 

_“Look up. Open your mouth completely.”_

 

Heat filled Jim’s face as he obeyed, mentally cursing his luck. He looked directly into the console’s camera and tilted his chin, indicating for it to move, which it did, readjusting until the holofeed cut off below Kirk’s nose. He could feel himself flush at the adjustment, fear and arousal already melding in his stomach at being so exposed, so near to divulging his identity. His tongue reflexively swiped over his dry lips and he cringed at how the instinctive action must have mimicked disobedience. _Can’t leave well enough alone, can you, Kirk?_

 

_“Indeed.”_

 

Jim’s stomach clenched as he fought not to close his eyes. _No, not indeed at all. It was an accident. Come on, you know I--_

 

_“Who is it that decides what enters or does not enter your mouth?”_

 

 _Oh._ The hard undercurrent to 33’s still perplexingly placid voice had seemed to strengthen into an edge that sent another shiver through Jim’s body. _Ok, starting off easy,_ he thought to himself. He began to reply, only to be cut off before he could begin.

 

_“I did not give you permission to close your mouth, s’cavat.”_

 

Jim immediately stretched his jaw, fully opening his mouth. He felt the warmth blossoming in his face and neck now as he realized that he would have to speak without the use of his tongue, lips or teeth. _Of course. Why would it be easy?_ Jim ran his tongue nervously against the inside of his lower lip and attempted to answer.

 

“Yuh, heur.”

 

_“I am afraid I could not discern your response.”_

 

Jim’s nostrils flared in frustration. Even as the first tendrils of that delicious amalgamation of shame and arousal began to weave through his being, Jim could not fight his deeply rooted affinity for being right. _Oh, come on! Clearly, I said it. “You, Sir,” how could you not get that?!_ He breathed deeply through his nose and tried again.

 

“Ye-Yuw, herr.”

 

Jim could do nothing to tamp down the embarrassment building tensely in his chest anymore than the arousal  now adding embarrassingly to the erection slowly hardening back to life between his legs. He longed to close his eyes, despite the fact that he could not see 33, but knew better than to do so.

 

_“It seems as though you have forgotten this simple concept as well.”_

 

A bead of saliva was welling at the corner of his mouth and Jim longed to wipe it away. His cheeks were hot with shame and he realized with a fresh wave of arousal that he was equally as helpless to cover them as he was to wipe his mouth. He felt his nostrils flare again with embarrassment and his flush creep down his neck, frustration coloring his skin at the cruel nature of 33’s game.

 

_“Tell me, who decides what you do or do not do with your hands?”_

 

Jim let out a short, hot huff of breath through his nose and immediately answered, hoping that the faster he responded the faster it would be over.

 

 **“Yuh, heur** ,” he croaked, attempting unsuccessfully to punctuate each syllable in hopes of satisfying the other man.

 

To Jim’s surprise and frustration, the force with which he had attempted to respond caused a small stream of saliva to trail warmly down his chin. Against his efforts, a quiet moan of anguish escaped him.

 

 _“I am afraid that is also incorrect,”_ 33’s voice had lost a bit of its edge, and Jim could swear it had been replaced with a somehow warmer, yet more malevolent tone. _“Bring  your right hand to your mouth, and move your tongue from the heel of your palm to the tip of your middle finger.”_

 

Eager to prove himself and to cover his reddened features, Jim responded, dragging his tongue across his clammy hand. The salt from his own skin excited him, and that fact shamed and aroused him further. Once he had finished, he remained still, open mouth panting warm puffs of air against his palm, causing the wet path he had made to tingle unpleasantly.

 

_“Put your middle and index fingers into your mouth and wet them with your saliva. You may not close your mouth.”_

 

Excitement added an unbearable element to the mass of embarrassment, frustration, lust, and impatience swirling in Jim’s gut. He pushed the fingers into his mouth readily, hoping that this would lead to what he wanted, anticipating 33’s instructions almost giddily. Jim twirled his tongue along and around the two fingers in his mouth. His eyes slid closed once again as he did so. Some part of his mind registered that he had to keep them open, but it was overspoken by the loud, slick sounds emanating from his mouth.

 

Jim pushed the digits farther into the wet cavern, pushing his tongue forward to lick lewdly at the space between his two fingers. He repeated the action, fucking the gap of his fingers again and again. He could feel the tendrils of warm, wet saliva dripping from his fingers, and the rivulets oozing across his chin and down his neck, but he didn’t care, couldn’t care; wrapped up in his ministrations, Jim hadn’t noticed the soft, keening moans that had begun to slip from his throat. He worked his digits in and out of his mouth, lathing them with his tongue until he heard 33’s voice once more.

 

_“That is sufficient.”_

 

Jim stilled immediately, but dared not move or open his eyes. He panted onto his wet hand and tried to keep the shivers from wracking his body.

 

_“I believe this demonstration should illuminate the answer to both of my  previous questions, does it not?”_

 

Unsure of how to respond, Jim blinked open his eyes and nodded slowly.  

 

_“You may answer normally.”_

 

Jim slowly withdrew his hand from his mouth and drew his lips together, working his jaw for a brief moment to dispel the soreness there before replying.

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

There was a moment of silence. Jim’s eyes flashed to the chat feed to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. His last words were stamped in green on the left side of the screen, nothing having followed or preceded that he had not heard. He knew better than to ask for clarification, and his eyebrows knit in confusion for a moment before realizing his misstep.

 

“You are who decides what goes into my mouth. You are who decides what I do with my hands. Sir.”

 

He could hear the barest trace of a waver in his voice, and Jim swallowed to coat his throat. Some part of him knew that he should feel embarrassed or at the least hesitant to show such submission, but a sudden wave of raw desire crashed over him, dispelling any other thoughts he could have had. He could feel the last traces of his control slipping, sliding from his grip away, far away into the darkness of that place he longed to be forced into, that mental space he had built brick by grueling brick as a home for his own need to submit.

 

_“And why is that?”_

 

Jim felt his cock twitch as all of the potential responses that he could give flashed across his mind. _Because I want you. Because you hurt me. Because I need you._ His mind spun on endlessly, giving reasons and wants until it ceased to provide coherent thoughts and was simply whispering nonsensical begging, fabricating licentious images and fantasies that failed in every way to provide an answer to 33’s question. Before long, however, 33 provided the answer.

 

 _“Fai’ei,”_ The sound of 33’s voice in his native tongue caused a new set of shivers to skitter down Jim’s spine. _“Du nam-tor t’nash-veh.”_

 

A soft moan tore loose from Jim’s throat as the words, warm yet unyielding, like granite wrapped in silk, fell on his ears. He could feel his erection pulsing now, fully hard and aching for attention. He nodded blindly, hips rocking against the air in desperation.

 

“Because I’m yours.”


	2. (2) New Messages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy again! I hope y'all liked the first chapter and looked forward to more. Cuz here it is! This one has a little more character development and a fair amount of ~sexy biz~. Let me know what you think. :D Please enjoy! 
> 
> And, as always, I do not I do not own rights to any Star Trek title or media iteration; they remain the intellectual property of Gene Roddenberry. I do not profit in any way from the creation of this work.
> 
> *Content Warnings*: Impact Play, Mild Asphyxiation Kink, Mild CBT

James Kirk was in agony. And though it was the sweetest of agonies, one which deftly maneuvered between the veil of pain and pleasure, Jim was writhing in the throes of its insufferable duality nonetheless. A shuddering moan rose in his throat and managed to slip through the infinitesimal gap between Jim’s lips and the hard black gag in his mouth, fizzling on his tongue as a breathy keening sound that just barely reached his own ears. His chest heaved with exertion, its rise and fall causing shocks of pain to radiate from the aching twin peaks of his clamped nipples. The taut muscles of his abdomen quivered and clenched, causing the small, cooled dots of melted wax there to crumble and drop to the floor. The muscles of his shoulders smarted sharply from the pull of his arms having been bound at the wrist behind his back for what felt like an eternity.

Despite the overwhelming sensations of his quaking, burning body, the majority of his attention was focused on the slim white finger lazily tracing a circle around the dewy tip of his throbbing cock. The organ was flushed red and fully hard, bound like the rest of Jim’s body, and just as desperate for release. The finger trailed down slowly, leaving a warm wet streak in its wake, broken up by the deftly tied rings of black rope trussing the organ and ending at the simple leather ring corded tightly around the base of Jim’s erection. The cool digit began to trace around it in a maddeningly gentle caress.

“Ah, pi’veh,” the cool, rich tone of the man’s voice stroked him like his fingers, as mercilessly tantalizing as his touch. “It appears you are in great need of something. Tell me, what might it be?”

“You, you, you,” Jim attempted to speak the mantra that had been plaguing his mind, but the intricate knot of black rope between his teeth rendered the words a wet, unintelligible sequence of barks.

The dark haired man before him cupped one pointed ear, turning his head to the side and leaning closer to Jim, stopping just short of coming in contact with his lips. From this close, Jim could just barely discern the sage tinted flush rising in the man’s cheek.

“If you would repeat yourself; I believe I have misheard you.”

Jim screwed his eyes shut against the sudden burn of frustrated tears. He let himself bite down on the rope gag for a moment, inhaling sharply before moaning against it, “You, please, please, you, please.”

He felt the warmth of the dark haired man’s flesh dissipate as he moved away. A leaden tangle of frustration and desperation pulled at the man’s sweat-beaded chest. Panting around the gag, Jim could only barely discern the sound of his feet against the floor, and feel the air shift against his naked body as the man came to stand behind him.

“Perhaps if you were to speak...more loudly.”

James had only a moment to consider how that would help him before a starburst of stinging pain blossomed across his naked backside. His eyes squeezed tighter shut, breath coming in a ragged pant on the heels of his sudden sharp cry of surprise and pained pleasure. His arms ineffectually attempted to reach for the site of injury, his now smarting left asscheek, but the movement only caused the cleverly rigged black rope around his throat and cock to tighten painfully. The simultaneous constricting of his windpipe and erection and the radiating heat of the blow combined to leave him lightheaded, a convoluted mass of need and hurt.

The second blow shocked him as much as the first, which led to a second round of dizziness, pleasure, and burning pain.

“You were saying?”

“Please, please, anything, anything, you, please.” Jim’s voice was a mixture of moaning, pleading, and shouting that should have horrified him. The prostrate quality of his tone was nearly unrecognizable, and some distant notion of his subconscious was chastising him for having let himself go so far, to be reduced to a whining incomprehensible mess, but that voice was quickly drowned out by the blood rushing in Jim’s ears, the pounding of his heart, the screaming of his every jangling nerve.

The dark haired man did not respond. His silence only added to Jim’s trepidation, his heart sinking darkly as the moment of silence stretched on. He had no concept of time or space, knowing only his senses, only his desperation for release, for validation, for submission. Jim flinched when he felt the telltale short, flat tongue of a crop touch the nape of his neck, bracing for impact. However, rather than strike him, the other man dragged the crop slowly down Jim’s spine, lingering on each line of rope knotted around his body. He followed the trail down toward the curve of his ass, tracing the rope path between the firm globes and just beneath to the bound and aching testicles there.

Jim couldn’t stop himself from jerking at the feeling, even so light a touch causing pain to shoot through him, so sharp that his thighs began to quiver. He was as helpless to prevent the movement as he was to stop the piteous moan that escaped him at the gentle caress. The sheer vulnerability of his body in this position conveyed the depth of his submission in a way that was impossible to ignore. The feel of its inescapable reality being literally beaten into him clouded Jim’s mind even further, a cacophony of clashing desires edging out the last vestiges of his self-control.

The crop rapped sharply against his left thigh and then his right before retracting the way it had come to drag across his hip bone. The firm leather of the crop bypassed his leaking member, sliding up and over the constraints crisscrossing Jim’s muscular abdomen and torso to lift the chain between his nipple clamps. Jim rose to the balls of his feet in anticipation, hoping to create some slack between the chain and his chest, but to no avail.

Eyes the color of fresh coffee stared down into Jim’s own with a swirling, heated gaze that betrayed everything and nothing. The man’s face drew closer to Jim’s in an action that seemed less one of intimacy and more one of appraisal. In a nearly imperceptible motion, the man flicked upward on the crop, tearing a strangled cry from Jim’s lips as the clamps bit into his tender flesh ever deeper as they began to pull away from his body. The dark haired man leaned closer still, his nose dragging against the side of Jim’s jaw. Over the sound of his own muffled, furtive begging around the gag, Jim could make out a low rumbling sound emanating from the other man’s chest, somewhere between a possessive growl and a contented purr.

Suddenly, the gag was ripped from between Jim’s teeth and an outpour of sound ran from his swollen lips, half trembling words and half soft, piteous sounds of need.

“Please, Osu. Anything--ah!--anything, please, just--”

The other man placed a long, cool finger over Jim’s lips, shushing him gently in a way that was uncharacteristically gentle. Jim’s mouth closed instantly, but he was unable to stop the soft whimpers and mewls rising from his chest from escaping against the man’s palm. He leaned into the touch as much as he could without upsetting the chain or the ropes, desperate for the man’s caress, trying any way he could to show how much he wanted him, needed him, would please him given the chance.

Jim watched as the dark haired man dropped the crop unceremoniously to the ground. Jim's relief was palpable, his body going slack and his lips pressing quiet, incessant thanks to the Vulcan’s finger. He kissed the digit again and again, hope rising in his aching chest that soon his torment would be over. The man shushed Jim again softly before removing his hand from against his lips to hook the shining silver chain between Jim’s clamped nipples. His other hand, now devoid of the crop, reached behind Jim’s back to grab hold of his bound wrists. Realization dawned, harsh as daybreak, in Jim’s eyes a moment too late, and he opened his mouth to plead, to beg, to bargain, anything to prevent what he knew was about to happen, but his cries were swallowed by a warm, chaste kiss. When he pulled back, the dark haired man’s face was impassive as always, but his eyes were alight with something akin to amusement. He made another gentle shushing sound.

“Ri tor stariben, s’cavat,” he murmured softly, and with a savage tug, pulled forward on the chain while pulling backward on Jim’s wrists, entrapping his entire body in a cage of riotous pain. “Shei.”

Jim jerked awake with a shuttering gasp, bolting upward into a sitting position, his muscles tense, sheets balled tightly in his fists. His chest heaved with the effort of drawing air into his lungs, and his eyes blinked rapidly, their attempt to discern his surroundings and simultaneously recall the prior images disorienting. He felt feverish, and reflexively brought a clammy hand up to cradle his forehead, displeased to find his skin burning hot and beaded with cold sweat. He carded the same hand through his unruly blond hair before letting it fall limply to the bed.

His mind still racing with sensual afterimages and his body still thrumming lightly with the lingering vestiges of an uncharacteristically brutal hunger, Kirk raked his fingers through his hair again to settle himself, taking a deep, calming breath before attempting to make any sense of what had just happened. He blew out a harsh breath, bringing the hand in his hair down to pinch the bridge of his nose. Jim squeezed his eyes tighter shut, revelling in the dancing pinpricks of light replacing the hazy images behind his eyelids for even a moment.

After a frustrating minute spent trying in vain to piece together dissipating fragments of almost memories that did nothing to calm his hammering heart or still irrationally stimulated body, Jim gave up. He let himself fall backward, flopping onto the uncomfortably damp sheets inelegantly and throwing an arm over his eyes with a huff.

“Damn it,” he croaked.

Beneath the dark recess of his bent elbow, Jim’s eyes obdurately replayed frozen moments from his dream despite his attempts to calm his mind. Black rope looping his body in devious patterns, strong and unforgiving fingers running across his skin, sharp white teeth, pointed ears, eyes the color of melted chocolate...Jim felt his cock begin to stir to life and grimaced at an uncomfortable sensation that accompanied the usual feelings of stiffness and rushing blood. He lifted his elbow enough to peer down toward his crotch and saw his erection beginning to tent the deep green cotton of his sheets. Jim lifted the thin sheet still draped over his lap and grimaced to see a dried white pattern of semen splashed across his stomach and genitals. For a moment, he did not move, trying to comprehend the implications of what must have happened. Surely not...He was a grown man, an adult.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he murmured, lowering the sheet and allowing his arm to relower over his eyes as he felt his face begin to heat with embarrassment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a wet dream. It had likely been somewhere between the ages of 12 and 15, but he refused to dwell on that fact. He’d been in a dry spell for some time now. It made perfect sense. In fact, it was only logical. He was allowed only a few minutes to wallow in his own poorly executed rationale before a loud klaxon call erupted from his bedside table.

Jim jumped as the sound blared, filling the room with an ear-splitting noise, within the din of which a feminine voice could be heard repeating, “0700. 0700. 0700.” Jim swore loudly, kicking the tangled sheets from around his feet with some difficulty and jumping from the bed. His feet propelled him toward the bathroom clumsily, his mind a jumbled mess of panic and frustration. In record time, Jim found himself clean and dressed, bolting out the door with his satchel at breakneck speed, swearing and reciting regulations and equations to himself in as rapid succession as possible. As he tore down the stairs of his barracks toward the main faculty building of Starfleet Academy’s main campus, excitement began to nudge away the remaining frustration and confusion he’d woken up feeling. Afterall, it wasn’t every day that one gets to take the Kobiyashi Maru for the second time, and Jim had a feeling that this time was going to be different.

~~**-xXx-** ~~

James Kirk threw himself into the comfortable leather armchair set before an imposing glass desk a moment after it was pulled out for him by the brusque Starfleet officer now heatedly glaring at him. Jim’s arm still smarted from where the man had gripped it with a seemingly excessive degree of force as he had walked him to Captain Pike’s office.

“Fascist,” Jim murmured, rubbing at his bicep and returning the glare just as pointedly.

“What was that?” The uniformed man growled, stepping closer to Jim.

Jim rolled his eyes. “You heard me, you mindless, boot-licking--”

“Boot-licking?! Who the Hell do you think you are, you arrogant little piece of sh--”

“Who do I think I am? Kirk, James Tiberius. T-I-B-E-R-I-U-S. Commit it to memory, if your brain still has enough space with all those regulations--”

“Oh, yeah? Yeah, I’ll--”

“Enough!”

Both men immediately separated, Jim bolting up from his chair and the man in uniform stepping back several paces, the two of them whipping their heads forward reflexively at the command.

Captain Christopher Pike strode into the room silently, taking a seat at his desk and surveying the various schematics and data chips scattered there without paying the two men any mind. He reached for his PADD, thumbing through a few pages before setting it down. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment.

“Dismissed,” he murmured in a placid voice, eyes still trained on his desk.

Jim turned to leave, and stopped in his tracks at the sharp sound of a fist colliding dully with the crystalline surface of the desk.

“I wasn’t talking to you and you know it. Now sit. Down.”

Jim huffed and sank down in the chair, glaring again at the man beside him.

“Thank you for escorting Cadet Kirk here, Ensign Hendorff. Now, return to your post.”

Ensign Hendorff opened his mouth, then closed it, turning on his heel to leave the room without casting a glance at either Kirk or Captain Pike. He halted in his steps just a foot short of the door as Captain Pike’s voice lilted casually across the room.

“And if you come across any other troubled young cadets on your way, try sending them to a higher up for reprimand before taking it into your own hands.”

Hendorff’s fists clenched at his sides briefly, but his voice betrayed none of his obvious displeasure as he murmured a terse “Yes, Captain,” and left the room. Kirk smirked, settling more comfortably into his chair. Tool, he mused silently, crossing his ankles as he leaned into the soft leather.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, I haven’t even started with you yet,” Pike bit, his tone every bit as hard as the look in his flinty gray-green eyes.

“I’m not going to mince words with you, Kirk, since we both know what you did already,” he continued.

Jim cleared his throat, sitting higher up in the chair, but Captain Pike held up a hand to silence him before he could speak.

“We both may know what you did, but apparently I’m the only one who thinks what you did was wrong. I didn’t think I’d need to explain this to you, but for the sake of regulation I want to make sure you know that cheating is against Starfleet academic policy and is grounds for probation at the very least and, likely, expulsion from the Academy. You do know that, don’t you, Cadet Kirk?”

Kirk could feel his mouth go dry and his pulse quicken. He swallowed.

“Captain Pike, I--”

“You know that, right?”

Jim’s teeth clacked together at the edge in Pike’s voice. This was very far from the first time he’d been in this chair, across from this desk, defending some flagrant dismissal of Academy regulation, but something was different in the Captain today, something he couldn’t quite decipher from the stoic man’s expression. Rather than risk upsetting whatever it was that had turned the man from stern to stony, Jim conceded that his pride could take the minor hit, and quietly murmured “Yes, Captain,” without lifting his eyes from their place on the floor.

“Then could you tell me, Cadet Kirk, how exactly, knowing that cheating is against Starfleet Academy regulation, you thought you would manage to avoid expulsion when you knowingly cheated not once, but twice on arguably the most important test of your career as a cadet?”

Ah. So they had analyzed the data cache from his first attempt too. Kirk swore internally, a sick spike of panic stabbing at his gut as he realized the implications of his being completely found out. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his thighs and surreptitiously wiping his damp palms along his uniform pants. His mind was buzzing with anxiety, excuses, strategies, and witty attempts at assuaging Captain Pike’s thinly veiled threat of expulsion, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

A snort of derision flew across Pike’s desk directly at Kirk’s pride, needling him with an added layer of embarrassment. It was a distinctly unfamiliar experience for Jim to feel this strange combination of shame and frustration. The unwelcome weight of it pressed into his chest, squeezing in tightly beside the anxiety swelling in his ribcage.

“Never thought I’d see the day Jim Kirk was speechless,” Pike chided, eyes still glinting with that indiscernible quality, but the lines around his eyes and mouth lessening slightly.

Kirk smirked lightly despite his raging emotions and cleared his throat, hoping the gesture would dispel not only the dryness in his throat but the heat in his cheeks and stiffness in his back.

“Captain, in my defense, as far as Starfleet regulation is concerned, cheating is defined in the Cadet Academic Integrity handbook as “any deliberate attempt to falsify, fabricate or otherwise tamper with data, information, records, or any other material that--”

“--that is relevant to the student's participation in any course, laboratory, or other academic exercise or function,” Pike interrupted irritably. “Are you really going to sit there and try to quote me Starfleet regulation? In your position?”

Jim’s brow furrowed at the interruption, his hackles prickling at Pike’s uncharacteristically condescending tone.

“Well, Captain, by that definition, I would say that the Academy has no grounds to expel me. I did not deliberately attempt to tamper with existing data, I successfully re-created the exact parameters that needed to be met by the test, and only added an additional sub-routine that ran a completely electronically distinct program that allowed for me to meet those parameters.”

Jim locked eyes with the captain across the desk, green eyes clashing with gray in a manner completely unbefitting someone attempting to postpone their own demise. He rubbed his hands against his uniform pants and sat up against the chairback, continuing quickly before Pike could interrupt again.

“So, I would say, since the initial test was left completely intact and unchanged, and each of its very stringent parameters met, it’s the responsibility of The Academy to provide concrete proof that my...method of taking the Kobiyashi Maru is academically dishonest, seeing as its current regulations don’t mention anything about adding additional material, only tampering with what’s already there, which I technically didn’t do.”

The silence in the room was palpable, the weight of it settling on Jim’s shoulders like a pair of hands pushing him down into the leather of his seat. His heart was hammering now, his stomach turning slowly in a lethargic dance that left him queasy. His mind was as full of static as it had been of ideas only moments ago, and his uniform jacket seemed sweltering and starchy against the now damp skin on the back of his neck. He watched Pike’s face flicker between expectancy, bemusement, incredulity, and finally the familiar guarded passivity Kirk had come to know. The Captain sat silently for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, hands resting on the armrests of his high-backed leather seat.

“Kirk, I know you’ve been taking Vulcan as one of your elective language courses, but I have to admit, even I’m surprised to hear you of all people find a way to logic yourself out of this.”

Jim could feel the icy fingers of his panic loosen their grip around his heart. He held Pike’s gaze despite his lingering sense of dread, and felt his fear recede another step as it softened slightly, the skin around his eyes crinkling as his lips lifted in a soft smile.

“So, are you going to tell me what really happened and save us both the nightmare of trying to get that passionate soliloquy to fly in front of the disciplinary board?”

Jim blinked, momentarily taken aback. He didn’t know whether to stay on the offensive or take another shot at sneaking out of the office somehow. He spluttered, attempting to piece together the fragmented thoughts and half-cocked plans still embroiling his mind in a hectic red fog. After several moments of half-choked words and throat clearing, he was saved from his nervous bumbling when Captain Pike’s interjected.

“Breathe, son.”

The dark haired man rose from his desk and folded his hands behind his back, walking a few paces toward the far wall opposite the door. It was spotlessly clear plexiglass floor to ceiling, awarding the two men inside a dazzling view of the Academy campus, including the monument to Jim’s father, George Kirk, in the center of the lushly landscaped quad. Looking at the statue made it even harder for Jim to do as Pike had asked.

He felt a lot of things when gazing at the monument to his late father: anger, resentment, loneliness, pride, sorrow. Each emotion swelled hot and tight in his chest now, scarcely leaving room for the next as it bloomed within him, leaving him feeling distended and hollow. He had attempted for so long to pack away those feelings, to avoid the aching sense of loss perennially affixed to the memory of his father. How could he miss someone he had never known? Jim was no closer to an answer now than he had been his entire life, but he did know that the harder he tried to push away the thoughts and feelings that accompanied staring down at the smiling hologram of the man, the emptier he felt, the lonelier, the more desperate for recognition and validation. Not that he would ever admit that, even to himself.

Jim’s eyes narrowed at the nearly opaque visage of the man that had died to save him and nearly 1,000 others. His mind drifted to the antique vellum photograph that his aunt had given him for his 12th birthday. He could see the sharp line of the defined jaw, the deep green eyes so like his own. He could remember what she had said to him as she put the weathered image into his hands.

“Remember, Jimmy, your father died a great man to give you the chance to live as one.”

Rather than name the hot, sour feeling blossoming in the pit of his stomach, Jim set his jaw and looked down at his hands, fisted in the material of his uniform pants. His father had died to give him a chance at greatness, but the hollow irony of his sacrifice was that he had left Jim with no one to teach him how to achieve it. He was alone in the world, and would be alone on every world he came to see. Was this not great in its own right, even if it was not good? Was he not yet a great man, having made a place for himself, a reputation outside of being George Kirk’s son, for better or worse? If nothing else, he could say that he could and would be remembered, would achieve greatness in his own way, without his father’s influence. No matter what he had to do.

“Captain,” Jim began softly. “Cheating...Cheating is copying someone else’s work because you don’t know the answer, or because you don’t know how to find it. Cheating is what you do when you rely on someone else to do the work for you. When all you want to do is do what someone else did just because it’s what’s expected, what’s accepted and encouraged.”

Jim slowly released his white-knuckle grip on his pants, fingers absently attempting to rub out the wrinkles left there. “What I did was--” Jim swallowed, throat suddenly thick and tight. “I didn’t take anything from anyone. I created a new way to answer the same question nobody else could answer. Just because it’s not the answer you wanted doesn’t make it wrong. It makes it mine.”

Silence permeated the room like a lilting fog. After an indiscernible amount of time, Jim heard a sigh from the other side of the room. He lifted his head to look toward Captain Pike and saw that the man had turned his back to the window and was looking down at him with an uncharacteristically soft expression. Pike crossed the room in a few decisive strides and came to stand beside the armchair Jim was occupying. He dropped a warm hand onto Jim’s shoulder.

“What am I going to do with you, Jim?”

Jim felt a smile tilt the edges of his mouth despite himself. He locked mischievous green eyes with Pike’s.

“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s say...a week’s probation?” Pike’s gentle expression faltered into his usual countenance of authoritarian impatience. “And...mandatory enrollment into the Programming Ethics course that starts next term?”

The older man held Jim’s gaze a moment longer, then patted his shoulder twice and retracted his hand. He turned on his heel and returned to his desk, falling into his chair with less grace than usual.

“Two weeks’ probation, starting today. And you’re going to be meeting with one of our simulation systems specialists regularly to undo whatever nonsense you did to our computers.”

A full-fledged smile broke out across Jim’s face before he could remind himself to look thoroughly chastised. “Thank you, Captain Pike, I’ll be sure to--”

Pike held up a hand. “You’ll also be expected to retake the Kobiyashi Maru before you can advance to your senior year coursework, without your modifications, of course.”

Jim nodded solemnly, his smile faltering at the tone in the Captain’s voice. “And it will be contingent upon the discretion of the systems specialist when you will be allowed to reschedule your simulation. Be it this term or next.”

Jim’s mouth dropped open as he shot to his feet. “But that would set me back a whole term!” He shouted incredulously.

Pike picked up the PADD that had been resting on his desk and held it out toward Jim. “Just sign, Kirk. And I’d advise you not to raise your voice again.”

The younger man gaped across the desk at Captain Pike, at a complete loss of words for the second time in one day. Absently, something in the back of his mind wondered if that was a new record. At the forefront, his mind was ablaze with indignant rage, doing its best to put together a cogent argument against what seemed like the most unfair possible outcome of this situation. If Pike was aware of how quickly the gears were spinning in Jim’s mind, he made no mention of it, and only raised his eyebrows, gesturing to Jim once again with the PADD in his outstretched hand.  
The distance between Jim and the offered PADD yawned, cavernous in its depth of meaning, despite being only inches away. Jim glanced from Pike to the PADD and back again. There was no give to Pike’s expression, no softness this time, and no hope. While Jim had built a reputation on never giving up on what he wanted, he had had his fill of begging in the past few days, and for once was more tired of the fight than determined to win. He had done his best, and this was the result. He would have to accept it, at least for now.

Steeling himself against the immense blow to his ego he knew it to be, Jim reached out and pressed his thumb against the screen. Once the PADD chirped and flashed green in confirmation, Jim dropped his hand and looked down at Pike, still seated, with an expression that he hoped was not the vicious scowl that it felt like. He waited for an awkward moment, stock-still before the desk.

“Dismissed,” Pike said flippantly, peering at the PADD and beginning to tap rapidly at the screen.

The command was half uttered when Jim had snatched up his satchel and turned on his heel, walking out of the office at a clipped pace and closing the door behind him with more force than explicitly necessary. Once out of the office, the incessant buzzing of the Academy campus overtook his senses. The sight of the milling cadets and glittering faculty buildings, the smell of freshly mowed grass, the sound of a hundred voices speaking and laughing and fretting, it all washed over him in a wave of sensation that helped his own overstimulated mind feel more at ease.

He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply to try and dispel the tightness in his chest and calm the pounding of his heart. He felt sick and raw. He could not recall the last time he had felt so helpless and used. Well, not while fully clothed. That’s the last thing I need to be thinking about right now, Jim thought as he ran a hand through his hair with a huff. Despite this, he could feel the distinct disturbance in his uniform pants of an unwanted and inconvenient erection attempting to stir to life. Exactly what I need right now.

With a resigned huff, Kirk slung his satchel over his shoulder and headed toward the barracks, cursing this day and his luck the entire walk back to his room.

~~**-xXx-** ~~

Jim stared down at the contents of his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl lethargically around the large, spherical chunk of ice in the center. Replicated whiskey never truly managed to take the edge off for him, but it would do for now. Besides, it beat chancing whether or not his ratty old Replicator would provide him with the mind-numbing substance he so desperately needed or apple juice. Or worse.

After a frustrating attempt to satisfy the untimely erection that had sprung up after his meeting with Pike, Jim had given up the ghost and fallen back, sweaty and agitated, onto his bed. His cock had pulsed in his hand mockingly as he swore loudly. No matter how he tried, Jim could not force his buzzing mind to focus on the sensual images he tried to bring to its forefront. He was powerless to stop Pike’s voice from overlapping 33’s, even M’Ress’ as he dug deep into his mental vault for his tried and true masturbation material. Finally, as the face of his imagined partner abruptly became that of his father, Jim had abandoned the effort completely and opted for a long shower in hopes that the hot water would soothe him in a way his ministrations could not.

It had worked for the most part, and, feeling more settled, Jim had decided that staying cooped up in his room would do nothing to preserve the feeling. He had dressed quickly and left, and his feet had carried him to the small bar he frequented just off campus while his mind wandered. Now, working on his third whiskey, the somewhat contented mood he had accomplished after his shower had begun to dissipate, and he was left feeling bitter and glum. While the whiskey had done its job of dulling the jagged edges of his anxiety, his mind was still teeming, albeit sluggishly, with voices of anger and admonition. His thoughts, which had been clamoring raucously inside his head, were now more of a news ticker of disappointment, droning endlessly across his mind. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure which he preferred.

Jim took another long swig from his glass rather than decide. He sighed as the familiar burn trickled down his throat to join the pool of comfortable heat in the pit of his stomach. The lazy trail that the whiskey burned through him settled a bit of his internal turmoil. He closed his eyes, attempting to surrender to the warm, honey-thick feeling that was blossoming in his gut. This is what I needed, Jim thought to himself serenely. Exactly what I--

He was jolted out of his thoughts when a hand suddenly clapped him on the shoulder as a gruff voice with an off-world accent shouted, “Hey!”

Jim jumped, blinking and looking around wildly. After a moment’s surveillance of his surroundings, he turned to look at the hand resting on his shoulder, then turned forward as he realized the tufted fur above the knuckles of C’Tall, the Caitian bartender.

“I am sorry, Jim,” He mewled sofly, his voice only just audible over the din of the bar. “But I have to cut you off. You know the rules, no cat naps at the bar.” C’Tall tried to smile at Kirk, but the rather feline quality of his otherwise handsome humanoid features made the gesture seem predatory.

Not for the first time, Kirk considered that this quality, though vaguely threatening, was not unattractive. “Sorry, C’Tall,” Jim murmured, flashing the young man a practiced grin and running his hand through his thick, sandy hair. “I should probably head home, unless,” he let his hand drop from his hair in a way that allowed his fingers to graze the bartender’s downy wrist. He locked his gaze with C’Tall’s slitted golden eyes, smirking internally as he noticed the pink tinge blooming across the bridge of the other man’s cat-like nose. “I could--”

“Reckoned I’d find you here,” a surly voice interjected, the lilting Southern accent in this instance seeming anything but charming.

Bones fell into the seat on Jim’s left, clapping a hand on his shoulder in the space that had been occupied by C’Tall’s mere seconds ago before he’d skittered away in the momentary distraction provided by the doctor’s arrival.

“But I didn’t think I’d find you already three sheets to the wind. Lord, man, it’s only 2130,” Bone groused, sliding his hand from Jim’s shoulder to nudge the nearly empty glass on the bar.

Jim scowled at Bones’ tone while his mind attempted to make sense of the words. “I don’t know what that means, but I’m gonna assume it’s an ancient Georgian insult,” he mumbled and made to reach for his glass, intent on draining it.

Bones snatched it out of grasp before he could do so. “I’m gonna go ahead and say you’re about finished for the night, Jim,” he said, raising his voice over Jim’s grumbling objections. “Just charge it to my account, C’Tall,” Bones cried over the hum of noise in the bar as he gripped Jim’s shoulder and made to haul him off the barstool. Bones watched the bartender raise a furry hand in response, busying himself with furiously wiping a single spot on the already immaculate counter of the nearly empty bar with more force than seemed necessary.

Jim grabbed for Bones’ wrist. “Bones, Bones, Bones, hey,” he countered, his voice also increasing in pitch as his friend attempted to again overtalk him. “Not even--’m not even drunk, really.”

The older man rolled his eyes and pushed against Jim’s shoulder with a negligible amount of force. Somehow, his face remained impassive as Jim swayed and nearly toppled off of his stool, barely managing to right himself and attempt and glare at Bones that resembled something much more akin to a pout.

“Alright, I’m prescribing some bedrest,” Bones sighed. “Doctor’s orders.”

Jim groaned and rolled his eyes, but stood begrudgingly as the hand on his shoulder tipped him off of his stool, causing him to wobble slightly on his feet. Ok. Maybe I’m a little drunk.

“Sue me,” Jim replied to his own thought under his breath.

Bones eyed him suspiciously. “What are you on about?”

Jim just shook his head, which caused an unpleasant flopping sensation in his stomach, and stared at the ground as he allowed Bones to pilot him by the shoulder through the bar and out into the night air.

-xXx-

“So,” Bones began about 20 minutes later as he leaned casually against the wall of Jim’s bedroom. “You gonna tell me why you aren’t answering your messages? Or why I had to fish you out of the bottom of a rocks glass at 2100 on this lovely Wednesday evening?”

The walk back to the barracks had been mercifully short, but eerily quiet. Bones had been disconcerted by how easily Jim had allowed him to steer his usually stiff shoulders home, and equally so at the fact that he had done so in near complete silence. In the years that he and Jim had been friends, Bones could count on one hand the number of times Jim had been anything less than jubilant when intoxicated. He was concerned to say the least.

Jim didn’t respond immediately. He was lying on his bed, arm thrown over his face, eyes hidden in the crook of his elbow. For the second time that day, he lamented the series of events that had led to his being left in this position. The room was spinning somewhat, and he waited for it to be still again before responding.

“You know why, Bones,” he muttered.

The older man’s brow furrowed further at the uncharacteristic response, but the lines marring his forehead relaxed moments later as a sigh slipped from his lips. He dipped a hand into the pocket inside his favorite leather jacket and extracted a thin silver flask, raising it to his lips.  
“How bad is it?” He took a swig, steeling himself against the answer.

Jim was silent for another moment before responding softly, “Two weeks’ probation, Programming Ethics, and a re-do of the Kobiyashi Maru.”

Bones jerked back, shocked. The boy had gotten off nearly scott free, compared to what could--and likely should--have happened. There had to be something else at play, something more severe that he wasn’t admitting, Bones thought, eyebrows crinkling again in contemplation. He didn’t have to wait long to find out what.

“But I can’t even apply to take it again until I get cleared by one of Pike’s “simulation systems specialists,” whatever that is,” Jim raised his arms to make air quotes and folded them behind his head when he brought them down, now staring at the ceiling. “And Pike was sure to make sure I knew that could be this term...or after.”

Bones nodded slowly, realization dawning over him instantly. He knew how important it was to Jim to be able to graduate from the Academy in under the standard four years, and how hard he had worked in order to do so. He had watched the boy take on twice the coursework of his peers, volunteer for his mandatory Samaritan quota, bury himself under the crushing weight of study and homework that would crush the spirit of any other Cadet, Hell, any other man that Bones knew. And he had done it all with a smile on his face, unflappable confidence and dedication unshaken and head held high. Successfully completing the Kobiyashi Maru (as well as could be expected for an unbeatable test) was the final step Jim had to take in order to apply for this senior coursework, the last hurdle between him and his dream of graduating nearly two full years early from the Academy. Or rather, it had been.

A sinking feeling settled in Bones’ chest as the realization settled over him. He pushed himself off of the wall and walked the few steps to JIm’s bed, settling himself on the edge. He eyed the bedsheets around him warily. He was Jim’s doctor, after all, and was well aware that he was likely far from the first person to join Jim on this bed. Bones shoved the thought aside with a grimace and slowly held out his arm toward the man lying prone beside him.

Jim seemed not to notice the flask extended toward him for a moment, but his eyes rolled downward toward it as Bones shook it, the quiet sloshing of its contents drawing his attention. He raised an eyebrow but reached for the offered flask regardless. He knew better than to question Bones’ seldom demonstrated mercy. He sat up to take a swig, and savored the sharp burn of real, non-Replicated bourbon, a sudden swell of affection rising in his chest on the tails of the liquor’s familiar burn. He blanched appreciatively at the aftertaste that made his gums tingle, and quietly passed the flask back to his friend.

“Quite a bind you’ve got yourself in, kid,” Bones said, sounding weary and somber, but--to Jim’s deep relief--neither upset nor disappointed. “But, look at the bright side.”

Jim eyed Bones, his face a mixture of shock and skepticism. “There’s a bright side?”

Bones tucked the flask back into his jacket, nodding firmly. “They just hired a new one of them systems specialists you have to see. Hear he’s a hardass, but apparently he’s the best in his field.”

The younger man nodded slowly, trying to puzzle out how any of this information constituted a silver lining. His face was twisted in confusion, and he absentmindedly outstretched out his hand for the flask again, despite the fact that the man beside him was not offering it.

Bones stared at the hand for a moment with a raised eyebrow before ignoring it and casting an annoyed look at Jim. “And it just so happens that he’s the one made the version of the test that you took. Versions,” he corrected before continuing. “So if you could make sure he’s the one that clears you, it’ll sure as Hell look good to the disciplinary board. I wouldn’t hedge my bets, though, Lord knows what it would take to charm a Vulcan.” Bones cast a pointed glance at Jim before rolling his eyes. “But if anyone could pull it off, I reckon it’d be you.”

Jim leaned forward, arms on his thighs, his muddled brain trying to piece together the implications behind Bones’ words. Version. Clear. Disciplinary Board. Charm. A small smirk twitched to life on his lips as it slowly dawned on him.

“Hey, Bones, when are those mandatory physicals scheduled for this term?”

The older man smirked, shaking his head slowly. He reached a hand back into the pocket of his jacket and once again withdrew his flask. His eyes locked with Jim’s and he sighed as he took a long, searing swig from the metal container, an expression on his face that Jim had seen more times than he could count. The younger man reached out, patting his friend warmly on the shoulder with a lopsided smile.

“Thanks, Bones,” he said softly, to which Bones replied with a slow roll of his eyes.


	3. (3) New Messages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! 
> 
> Ok, so obviously this chapter is VERY late. Nearly a month past when I wanted to update, and for that I'm very sorry. I won't try and make excuses. Things have been very hard for me to keep track of lately and I had to focus on what made me healthiest. Luckily, it seems like things have quieted down for the time being, so the next update likely won't be so far in between, but I have a few other projects to work on in my limited down time, so I try not to make promises. 
> 
> Anyhoo! The upside is that this chapter is really long. And it's chock full of masturbation, angst, plot development, humor, fuzzy Bones/Kirk best friend feels, and a new friend! I hope it makes up for the horrendous wait. If it does, please comment and/or leave kudos and let me know! If it doesn't, please comment and/or don't leave kudos and let me know! 
> 
> **Also, I would like to add that I have an open door policy with comments on this story, and due to its nature will take any and all comments about content that anyone may find disturbing/triggering/difficult very seriously and will add warnings, tags, and descriptions/clarification as needed upon request. Because consent is key!
> 
> No additional content warnings for this chapter, besides some pretty vanilla explicit content. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not I do not own rights to any Star Trek title or media iteration; they remain the intellectual property of Gene Roddenberry. I do not profit in any way from the creation of this work.

A swarm of dustmotes swirled and danced in the shaft of pale light shining through the small, thin window near the ceiling of Jim Kirk’s bedroom. The light was hazy with their motion, inundated with the tiny things adrift in the space where the sun shone. Jim’s eyes followed their strange, listless whirling closely. He had been watching the rhythmic spectacle since the light in which the tiny specks swirled was a delicate, welcoming pink. He couldn’t be sure of the exact time, but he had disabled his 0700 klaxon nearly two hours before it had been set to go off, and had since largely lost his concept of time. 

 

It had been a strange, discomfiting sensation to switch off the alarm knowing that he didn’t need its blaring warning to wake him up, knowing that he had nowhere to be. He was by no means a fastidious creature of habit, and rarely adhered to the structured schedules that his  fellow Cadets clung to as if for dear life. However, waking up naturally, head softly buzzing with the lingering dregs of Bones’ bourbon, and realizing there was no need to dash through a shower, replicate scrambled eggs, or tug on his uniform made him feel something he couldn’t quite name. It was a dark feeling, certainly, but difficult for Jim to categorize. He felt oddly hollow, diminished and uncertain. Now, hours later, the feeling still hadn’t quite dissipated. 

Jim rolled himself onto his side with a dejected sigh. His eyes flitted to the softly glowing green numbers hovering just above the surface of his nightstand.  _ 0937\.  _ Jim stared at the numbers bemusedly. He had assumed that it would have been well near the afternoon when he finally got around to checking the time, and some part of him felt vaguely disappointed that more of the day hadn’t passed. He blinked bleary hazel eyes as the numbers continued to float above the shining scrubbed aluminum of the side table, impartial in their report, unaware of the significance of the time it announced. He flopped back onto his back and folded his arms under his head. 

 

“I guess probation isn’t meant to be fun,” Jim muttered to himself. His words rose like waves of heat from steaming asphalt, rippling softly through the silence of the room. Jim stared at the ceiling and tried to let his mind wander in an attempt to make the minutes slide by a fraction more quickly. A few mind-numbing moments passed, a quiet buzz humming through the empty space of his consciousness, but he couldn’t keep snatches of his conversation with Pike from flashing through his mind. The Captain’s furrowed brow, the look of disappointment in his steely eyes, his hard-edged voice; each jagged shard of memory stabbed at the dense, amorphous sensation in his gut. 

 

Jim’s own brow furrowed as he attempted to name the feeling in an effort to relinquish some of its hold over him. He replayed the tense moments in Pike’s office, the altercation with the gruff Starfleet officer that he would forever now refer to as “Cupcake” in his mind, even back to the agonizing moments of doubt and anxiety while he retook the Kobayashi Maru, fully aware of the likelihood that he could be caught, or worse, fail again. Every instance of the previous day seemed to play frame by frame through his imagination. Jim could feel himself reliving the fear, the panic, the anger, and finally the crushing reality of the situation, the stilted sense of relief.

 

The hollow sensation in Jim’s stomach roiled, souring as realization dawned on him. It was shame, what he had been feeling. He, perennially cocksure and unflappable, stalwart in his dedication to his own narrative, felt truly ashamed of himself for the first time in longer than he could remember. He had failed and fallen more times than most Starfleet Cadets, in a number of spectacular ways, but Jim had the uncanny ability to treat each misstep as a new way of observing his potential, not as a result of lacking it. But now, replaying the events that led up to his lying prone in his bed at 0937 on a weekday, his shame settled over him in a way that was painful and all-encompassing.

 

It suddenly, terribly overwhelmed him. The frenetic pace of the past days’ actions and the sudden weight of the implications of his ennui flooded his mind with fears and uncertainties that Jim was woefully under equipped to handle alone. What if the Disciplinary Board didn’t buy Pike’s verdict? What if they expelled him anyway? What if he never got to retake the Kobayashi Maru? What if he failed? Jim’s fingers tightened in the hair at the nape of his neck as he forced out a slow breath. 

 

Jim repeated the action and felt the tension that had gathered quickly throughout his body lessen by the slightest degree. He wouldn’t let this overcome him, he decided in that moment. He had options, choices, ways around and through all of the things that he feared most. He always had and always would. It was one of the things that made him who he was. Jim’s mind began to drift, unbidden, flashes of his past pushing to the forefront of his mind, reminding him of all of the times he had only his wits and indellible spirit to sustain him, sometimes literally. He scrunched his eyes closed tightly and let out a shaky breath as he clamped down on the train of thought and forced it from his mind.  _ Clearly, _ he mused, sliding his eyes open to once again stare numbly at the particles swirling in the shaft of light above his bed,  _ staying in bed all day is not the best option _ . Jim pondered the possibilities he had at his disposal for occupying his day. 

 

_ Well, there’s always laundry.  _ The man cast a glance at the mounting pile of dirty jeans, t shirts, and uniform pants. He was on his last clean pair, and wondered just how long he could make them stretch. After a moment’s consideration, he decided he didn’t have the energy for lugging the mound of clothes to the laundry facility and reasoned with himself that he could wear the pants another two or three times before the situation turned dire. A wild lash of inspiration flashed through Jim’s mind as he considered going back to the simulation lab to practice for his third attempt at the Kobayashi Maru, but the thought dissipated quickly as he remembered that he was only allowed on campus now for certain "designated academic pursuits," and that his private access to the labs was no longer allowed. His earlier sense of shame throbbed dully in his stomach. 

 

Jim shook his head with a frustrated sigh, trying to knock the thought loose.  _ Designated. Designated.  _ The word rolled around in his head, sticking for some reason at the forefront. Hadn’t he recently seen a list of designated academic pursuits somewhere? Jim mulled the thought over for a few more moments before the answer popped into mind. The bulletin board outside Pike’s office had had a notice up about the renovations being done in the main faculty building, stating that only the “designated academic pursuits” that had taken place in the building would not be suspended. He tried to recall the list of glowing orange words that had appeared on the notice.  _ Sports teams, crew simulation practices, all academic tutoring-- _ Jim’s mulling came to an abrupt halt. 

 

Academic tutoring, he recalled, included not only major and minor subjects, but also tutoring for linguistics courses. Courses like those Jim had been enrolled in before he was on probation. Courses like xenolinguistics. Particularly, courses like Vulcan; a course in which he was still--rather redundantly--enrolled and able to take tutoring lessons for. Jim let out a quiet sound of relief. It was settled. He’d hike himself out of bed and force himself to go on campus for Vulcan tutoring.  _ Besides, I’m hardly fluent. In fact, I do feel a bit rusty. _

 

Jim could feel a smirk ghosting about the edges of his lips as he thought about his Vulcan prowess, a thought that was impossibly intertwined with the concept of a certain digitally rendered Vulcan dom. It had been several days since his last conversation, as it were, with 33. Hazel eyes swivelled toward the console desk in the corner of the room and considered it with muted interest.  _ Maybe....no. _ Jim conjured the thought of trying to get 33 to take his mind off of things, but decided to scrap the idea as the memory of what happened last time he’d admitted to needing a distraction to the man came to mind. Jim rolled his eyes back upward, staring blankly at the ceiling. Besides, his head was too clouded to commit to what he knew both of them would need for a successful scene, and his stomach clenched at the thought of anyone else being disappointed in him.

 

It was times like these when Jim rather resented the intrinsic link between disappointment and arousal that had been branded into his subconscious by M’Ress and 33 and the various dominant partners that he had brushed up against in the past few years. He knew that the key to his submission lie in staving off the inevitable disappointment that accompanied misbehavior or lack of ability to perform. Unlike other submissives, who feared judgment or punishment, Jim embraced both as tools to help mold and foster his abilities. It was his drive to prove to his dom that he found strength and pride in his submission that fueled Jim’s desire to please. He ached for the validation that pleasing his Master brought him, the acceptance of his decision to embrace his position as a sub that would be impossible without constant affirmation. Though he knew, logically, that disappointment outside of a scene did not have the same implications as within, he could not help the sense of panic-tinged arousal that sparked to life in his gut as the thought of letting 33 down flitted across his mind. 

 

Perhaps even more frustrating was the fact that because of his exploits, disappointment no longer solely held for him the simple, innocuous threat of failure that it once had, but instead represented the promise of potential, yet recognized. Disappointing your Master or Mistress was a grave sin, and one that no submissive took lightly, but for Jim, doing so was more than folly; it was calamity. However, despite the fact that he often toed too closely the line between willful and insubordinate, Jim was well-trained, body and mind, to realize when doing so would entertain, intrigue, or infuriate his partner. Regardless, Jim was far from perfect, but he always realized that if he was punished for his misdeeds, it was deserved, and not a way to harm or diminish him, but a reminder of his lot, his role in his dominant’s life, a corporal recollection of just what he was capable of doing for his Master or Mistress. And Jim never missed an opportunity to show his dominants just what he was capable of. 

 

The thought lifted a haughty smirk to Jim’s lips. Ego wasn’t something that was permitted to a submissive. Pride was something that no self-respecting sub would allow to prevent them from performing their submission with passion and devotion, and often was something that played no part in sceneing whatsoever, something that was actively removed from the spirit of a submissive in the earliest stages of training. He knew that well, and yet, Jim’s pride was an integral part of not only his personality, but his character. He recognized that the headstrong, pugnacious, incorrigible submission that he performed would not please every partner, but the challenge that he presented as a sub was what always drew them back for more. He was good at what he did, unique and addictive to doms, switches, and vanilla partners alike, and most importantly, he knew it. 

 

Jim could feel himself beginning to harden and his smirk widened. It was a testament to said ego that simply mulling over his own sense of self-satisfaction had his body so stimulated, and something about that pleased him endlessly. The opaque sense of dread that had settled over him began to dissipate as he let his thoughts wander. Jim didn’t spend a lot of time pondering the philosophical implications of his seemingly overnight transition from chaotic bisexual top to kinky, devoted power bottom. Before M’Ress, he had never truly considered the importance of his sexuality at all. He had known from a young age that a grin and a great head of hair did wonders for getting people to see things your way, and with the life he’d been dealt, having people see things his way was key to survival; gender hadn’t been a condition he considered terribly important. 

 

As he aged and survival became secondary to truly living, Jim had come to realize that male, female, and all forms in between had their own unique appeal to him and, more pressingly, could offer him the pleasures and validations that he sought. Even after M’Ress, he had developed no particular leaning toward any type of body, or personality, only now seeking anyone that could hurt and help him through his navigation of his new hungers and hobbies. He had never attributed any inherent moral value to his tastes or proclivities. He had simply never seen the point. He knew what he wanted, knew how he wanted it, and sought it out whenever possible. He could hear the echo of M’Ress’ voice in the back of his mind, reciting her common credo:  _ “Remember, little one, never fear your desires, no matter how shocking they may seem. If what you crave is safe, sane, and consensual, there is no shame in wanting it.”  _

 

Those words had never truly left Jim, and they had done wonders in helping him transition seamlessly into the sub he never thought he’d become. A conversation he’d had with 33 came to mind immediately thereafter, filling his mind with the searing memory of the first time they’d discussed their individual boundaries and tastes. Jim had wasted no time in baldly stating his needs, wants, hard and soft limits, and interests. There had not been an ounce of embarrassment or self-consciousness in him as he did so, and he recalled his happily typing out the carefully structured lists that 33 had asked him to provide. He felt his cock twitch as the image of 33’s meticulously organized response--which had come in the form of a drafted table, ranked from most to least desired--enumerating licentious proclivities like so many groceries on a list floated through his mind. Much of it had surprised him coming from the seemingly mild-mannered man, and some he had never heard of or experienced. The rest, as they say, was history. 

 

Jim shifted restlessly against the sheets, stretching his legs before bending them at the knee and allowing them to fall open onto the bed. His back arched lightly at the feel of the cotton against his swelling sex. It had been some time since he had been free enough from obligation to ponder his strange sexual evolution, or even truly make sense of what it was that he was doing with 33. Even once they had drafted their contract, Jim had been too horny and excited to do much emotional laboring on the act. He’d jumped into sceneing, marvelling at the added sense of power shifting across his console screen as he pleasured and tortured himself for another’s amusement. It was a new test of his discipline, which he had not realized was so sorely lacking, and singularly overwhelming in its pleasure and intensity. 

 

Now, newly burdened with seemingly endless swathes of unoccupied time and accompanying emotional freedom to which he was not accustomed, Jim couldn’t seem to make himself contemplate the meanings or consequences of his relationship with 33. The notion slid through his thoughts, draping itself over his growing arousal as if to block it from from his mind. Some vacant part of Jim knew that coming to terms with what he did and felt with 33 ought to function as a boundary to intensifying the feelings that accompanied their interactions. This realization held for seconds at best before Jim’s insuppressible libido overtook his rational mind, flooding his thoughts instead with reproduced images of his favorite moments spent with 33.

 

Overcome as he now was with memories of their scenes and conversations and the sudden deluge of emotion that accompanied them, Jim brought a hand from its resting place underneath his head and trailed his fingers down his chest. The nearly innocuous tactile stimulation comforted him and the pleasure that he knew would follow swelled beneath is touch, squeezing out the troublesome emotionality he had no desire to address. He was suddenly completely aroused, his mind playing and replaying snippets of the hours he had spent in front of his console, pinching, pleasuring, spanking, listening, stuffing, choking, disobeying, and begging. His fingers dragged across the hard planes of his pectorals and sought out a beaded nipple. He rolled the warm nub between his fingers, adding gradually more pressure with each twist of his fingertips. 

 

A quiet sound of contentment escaped him. Small tortures like this were part of why Jim enjoyed the Scene so much. Indulging in each minute hurt and pleasure worked his body into a frenzy of thrumming need so intense that by the time he climaxed it was explosive, incredible, not an end to a sexual action, but the beginning of sensation so intense it was like a new and delicious pain in itself. He abandoned his now stiff and smarting nipple for the other, repeating the abuse, and brought his other hand from beneath his head to slip down his body and grasp the base of his now pulsing erection. Jim let out a low moan at the touch. He had spent so much time repressing sound and fretting over comportment that when he was alone, performing for no one, he allowed his every moan and sound of need to leave him passionately. After years of focused training in the art of receiving pleasure and pain, Jim had grown into an expert in how to elicit both sensations from his body. 

 

Jim began to pump himself with firm, rapid strokes almost immediately. He could see still images of 33 projected onto his closed eyelids, the screenshots of picture messages that he had memorized down to the most minute detail. Long, elegant fingers sliding down through a thatch of thick, manicured black chest hair, soft sage-tinted nipples growing tight and stiff at the touch of elegant hands. 33 had openly refused to show his face or his genitals on-screen very early in their communications, assumedly to protect his anonymity. Jim had understood completely and sympathized, despite his own lack of reservation. In the moment, however, he caught himself resenting that choice despite his respect for it. He had imagined more times than he could count what the rest of the man’s body was like. He had even indulged in attempts to search online for examples of Vulcan anatomy to help his daydreams along, but was frustrated to find that there was little to no information on the topic, only speculation that ranged from questionably plausible to downright ludicrous.

 

Another soft groan slipped out from between Jim’s lips. His attempts to envision what 33’s cock looked like became doubly frustrating he now attempted to imagine it, whatever its dimension, sliding into him, filling him, claiming him, and sating the ravenous need that had been building inside Jim for months. The hand that had been alternately teasing his nipples snaked down his chest, fingers skittering across the tense muscles of his stomach. He could feel his anus clenching around nothing, the hollow want to be filled and stretched maddening, each contraction of his muscles reminding him that he was bereft of what his body desired most. His fingers trailed lower, drawing a burning line across his inner thigh before dipping between his legs to find his puckered entrance. 

 

Jim bit his lip. The tip of his index finger traced the rim of his hole, teasing the sensitive gathered skin. He flattened the pad of his finger against the opening, pressing lightly until he felt the dull scrape of his fingernail pushing through the outer ring and nudging its way inside up to the first knuckle. The hand pumping his erection slowed somewhat, his grip stretching more slowly from root to tip. A long, smooth moan escaped around Jim’s teeth, half buried in his bottom lip, as he pushed his finger deeper inside of his body. Jim’s eyes closed, the tension in his neck loosening as he let his head drop heavily against his pillows. The familiar burn and drag of fucking himself open leeched the rigidity from his muscles, his hips rolling languidly and shoulders pressing against the bed to give him surer access to his aching body.

 

A voice in the waning recesses of Jim’s rational mind was calling out that there was lube just an arm’s distance away in the bedside table drawer, that he should use it, that that was exactly why he had put it there, that it was a bad idea to keep going. Jim allowed the sound to float innocuously across his consciousness and away, lost forever in the tangle of damp, dark thoughts that were rapidly filling the space behind his eyelids. The pain of his rough teasing was slight, but familiar and deliberate, an intentional tease designed to push him closer to the edge. He loved the soft, wet feeling of his insides enveloping his finger juxtaposed with the deep, biting burn of being stretched. He could easily have reached for the lube in the nearby drawer, or slicked his palm and fingers with saliva, but he had chosen instead to hurt, in this small way, to marry the ache to the blossom of pleasure that fanned the flame of arousal in his belly. 

 

Jim felt a spark of pleasure shoot through him as he pushed his digit further inside himself. He pushed through the deeper, tighter muscles just within, rubbing along the moist walls with the pad of his finger in a way that was strangely both erotic and comforting. He withdrew it and allowed a second to join alongside the first, and pressed both against the clenching entrance to his body with little hesitation. The stretch was a snugger fit than anticipated, and Jim’s hips raised from the bed, a gasping groan prying apart teeth and lip at the sharp sting of being filled so quickly. Despite the discomfort, Jim’s eyes slivered open to watch as he felt a fat drop of precum bead at the tip of his cock, glinting licentiously in the low light before spilling smoothly over the tip. 

 

The sight made Jim’s cock jump in his palm. He watched the cloudy drop leave a shining trail in its wake as it slid down his length to drip over his fingers. Seeing it disappear into the crevices of his knuckle, feeling the slickness against his palm, Jim knew he wouldn’t last long. As he slid his fist up his shaft, he knew he didn’t want to. His fingers nudged the flair of his sensitive pink head and Jim unfolded his fingers from the tight grip he’d had on his erection, spreading them  nearly flat and rubbing the palm of his hand roughly against the wet tip in a tight circle. A choked expletive accompanied the sharp jerk of his hips downward, driving his fingers deep into his sensitive inner flesh, pressing the tips of the digits harshly against his prostate. Pleasure jolted through Jim’s body, jagged forks of bliss ricocheting from nerve to nerve. He felt his balls draw up, tight with need in the wake of the explosive sensations. 

 

His hunger was near wild, gnawing at him, biting at the heel of every motion, every stroke and gyration. Jim could feel the heat growing in his belly, climbing higher with each pass of his hands over his body. He scissored his fingers, fighting against the reflexive clench of his muscles and reveling in the burn of the stretch. Moaning, Jim fell into a quick rhythm, alternating between spearing  himself on the two digits pressed within him and scissoring them to work deeper inside of his body. He passed the heel of his palm over his cockhead again and felt his toes curl tightly against the sheets. The hypersensitive flesh had begun to steadily weep thick pearls of precum, the trail they left glinting in the light as it slicked the hardened length, allowing Jim to pump himself faster. 

 

The heat in his stomach was threatening to consume him whole. Tingling jolts of electric pleasure were shooting across his body and skittering up his spine. Jim was bucking his hips, riding his own hand closer to completion both inside and out. He wanted to open his eyes, to watch himself wring the last ounce of pleasure from his own sweating, squirming flesh, but behind them, a non-stop stream of erotic images inundated him with longing so fierce he didn’t dare interrupt. Memories, sweaty midnight fantasies, inappropriate daydreams, all swirled together to create a debauched amalgam of sight, sound, and sensation that made Jim cry out into the empty room. Long fingers pinching and probing him, delicate furred wrists binding his body, harsh words from plump red lips binding his mind, the crack of paddles, the low, feral sound of lust combined with rage. 

 

_ Du nam-tor t’nash-veh.  _

 

The words struck Jim like a blow, resonating from his memory and reverberating through his being like a plucked chord. His fist tightened painfully around the swollen flesh in his palm, his hips rising from the bed in a sharp arch that left him straining to buck both downward into the push of his fingers and forward into the vice-like grip around his cock. The voice echoed in his mind, the vague, foreign lilt at the edge of each word like its own gentle command to obey, to comply, to remember. A desperate moan filled the space of the room. 

 

_ Ah, pi’veh.  _

 

_ Shei.  _

 

Each memory of the sound of 33’s voice was an assault on his self-control. Every syllable pressed into his mind, pushing him closer and closer to the precipice of release. He could feel beads of sweat rolling across his forehead and chest, his muscles tightening and his back arching to a painful degree. He heard 33’s deep, placid voice ring in his ears as it littered him in insults and reassurances, the drag of thin fingers leaving lines of fire across his body. It wasn’t fair, the way his thoughts betrayed his need, the way he could play his every nerve to show that need perfectly, performing for himself and his empty room, so keen to put on the same show before appraising dark eyes instead. 

 

“Shit!” 

 

Suddenly, Jim’s cock was pulsing in his grip, shooting hot spurts of cum onto his chest and neck. He felt it splash warmly against his skin, welcoming the filth and the wetness of it. He worked his softening length slowly, savoring the sensitivity of the skin and the way his now gentle caress sent cascades of pleasure down his spine that were nearer to pain. Jim’s eyes greedily took in the sight of his cum drooling from the flushed head of his cock, oozing over and between his fingers, dripping onto his stomach. His ass was clenching wildly around his fingers with the aftershocks of his orgasm. He shifted, and slowly rubbed his fingers up and along his prostate once more. The feel of his fingers against the hypersensitive gland tore a rasping moan from his lips. Jim watched as another spurt of cum shot out to join the long white streaks adorning his skin. 

 

With a quiet sound of contentment, Jim pulled his digits from within himself and rested his palm against the bed, then released his exhausted organ to fall limp against his belly. He closed his eyes, his ears full of the sound of his own panting breath and hammering heart. For a moment, Jim lie still. The force of his climax had surprised him. It had been a fair amount of time by his own standard since he’d gotten laid, but usually during dry spells going solo seemed at best a hobby and at worst a chore. It was unusual for him to feel such an electrifying response to his own hands, his usual daydreams. Then again, it had been a particularly long dry spell. 

 

Jim sighed and forced himself to sit up on the bed, legs splayed and hands resting on either side of his hips. This wasn’t something he was keen to dwell on. As his body shifted into its new position, Jim could feel the rapidly cooling cum across his torso sliding down his skin in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The sudden desire to run his fingers through each streak of wetness shot suddenly through him, leaving his fingers twitching against the damp sheets and his gut suddenly filling again with the heat of desire. He could see it clearly: his fingers trailing through pearly splashes of his own cum, smearing it across his muscled chest and stomach, using it to slick his fingers as they once more sought out the most intimate regions of his body. 

 

A sudden strong twitch in his lap made Jim pause. He was self-aware enough to know that this train of thought could have only one outcome, and though he wasn’t entirely against a multi-hour wankfest with minimal breaks for water and snacks  _ per se, _ he knew somewhere in the much less horny recesses of his mind that ultimately, indulging in one was not the proper way to process his frustration. And, if he was being candid with himself, Jim was well aware that at his peak, it wasn’t the best idea to give in to the desire to jack himself into oblivion, and in a dry spell as long as this one was proving to be, it couldn’t possibly result in anything positive. Jim resignedly allowed the seldom victorious voice of restraint in the back of his mind a small victory, keeping mental tally of the event for the next time that Bones tried to say he never did anything reasonable. With a sigh and no small amount of mingled restraint and frustration, Jim pulled the tangled sheets from across his legs and stood, quickly making his way to the shower. 

 

As his feet padded against the floor, Jim felt his resolve to be productive mesh uncomfortably well with his newly acquired sense of shame and create a leaden anxiety in his chest that even he struggled to understand. It was as if a buzzing weight had been set on his chest, making him antsy to leave the house and filled with dread at arriving on campus simultaneously. The sudden burst of hot water against his suddenly tense muscles assuaged the feelings momentarily. He closed his eyes, letting the torrents of heat beat against his shoulders and chest. The stream ran down over his abdomen, rinsing away the evidence of his previous activity, his sudden spike of anxiety and dread joining it to circle around the drain. Creeping fingers of doubt trailed along his spine, but Jim shook his head, the soft spray of his hair against his cheeks oddly grounding. He knew what he was doing. Or, what he would do. He could serve his time on probation masturbating with dignity and dutifully brush up on his Vulcan in the meantime. If he brushed up against a particular Vulcan Simulation Systems Specialist around campus, so be it.  _ And if that fails,  _ Jim mused, sighing into the warm spray.  _ I could always brush up against C’Tall in my spare time.  _

 

-xXx-

 

Jim tipped his chair back onto its rear two legs, balancing precariously while a stylus stood tenuously upright on his index finger and its corresponding PADD wobbled helplessly on his head. He glared at the thin metal rod, hoping that he could keep it aloft through sheer force of will, which for Jim Kirk was a force commonly believed to rival gravity. He placed his foot against the edge of the table before him, knee bent, in an attempt to improve the balance of the chair. He smirked as he felt the PADD shift threateningly but not fall. 

 

“Careful, Kirk, or the Academy will only have 9,999 arrogant, self-centered chauvinists left to choose from.” 

 

Jim jerked at the sudden sound, concentration shattering. His feet scrabbled against the edge of the table while his hands flailed momentarily, attempting to snatch purchase out of the air and failing. One urgent, empty hand lunged for the table ledge, the other snatching the precariously perched PADD from his head before it could meet an untimely demise against the floor. With a loud scraping noise, the four legs of Jim’s chair collided with the floor and scraped forward, pulling him closer to the table while he attempted to gain purchase on the ground with both legs. He spent a moment frustratingly tangled, not terribly unlike the holo-puzzles he used to enjoy as a child, before jerking back from the table and releasing the edge while righting himself in the hard plastic chair.  

 

The man placed his belongings on the table before him, then straightened his jacket with as much dignity as he could muster before clearing his throat and adjusting his posture in the chair so that he was leaned back, his arms resting on the arms of the chair in a manner that he very much hoped looked as nonchalant as he intended it to look.

 

“Ah, the perennially lovely Ms.Uhura,” Jim said silkily, running a hand through his sandy hair. “It is still  _ Miss,  _ right? I didn’t miss my chance?” 

 

Nyota sighed loudly as she set her satchel down on the table, pulling out the chair opposite Kirk and sitting gracefully before turning a hard look on the handsome face before her. 

 

“I would say you most definitely missed it, but that would suggest that you ever had a chance to begin with.” She turned and began to pull out her PADD and travel projector and styli, tossing over her shoulder airily, “And it’s Cadet  _ First Class, _ actually.” 

 

Jim couldn’t help but smirk. Cadet First Class Uhura was a woman of unparalleled intelligence, grace, and temper. She had initially been the reason that Jim had chosen to study Vulcan. Far before he had known he’d be able to have a practical application of the language, the then Cadet Third Class had caught his attention with her breathtaking looks, but it was something in the demure, genteel way that she could completely destroy anyone who opposed her during lectures and discussions that had captivated him. He had, like so many before him, attempted to garner her interest numerous times, but each try, no matter how creative, failed in such a spectacular fashion that he was helpless to do anything but continue the effort for the duration of his first year at the Academy. 

 

His pursuit of the peerless Cadet Uhura had tapered off into a friendly, expectant call and answer of “please” and “no” when Jim had begun to see M’Ress, and as their scening blossomed into a relationship, Jim and Uhura had somehow transformed into friends, their dynamic very much similar to that of an exhausted older sister and precocious kid brother. It suited them well, and as Jim learned and grew, and as his Academy course load grew heavier and more complex, Uhura was there to assist, if begrudgingly, along the way. She helped most consistently as his Vulcan tutor and occasional xeno-anthropological cheatsheet through courses on things like diplomacy and cultural sensitivity, which Jim seemed to resoundly lack any talent for, despite his natural dashing charm.

“Of course,” Jim conceded, pouring out every ounce of said charm. “My apologies.” 

 

Nyota rolled her eyes with a gentle shake of her head. She could see through Jim quicker than a hologram. The younger Cadet didn’t apologize for anything if he could help it, and definitely didn’t do so by saying “my apologies.”  It was obvious that he either needed or wanted something from her, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking him what it was. If he needed it that badly, he could ask  _ her _ , or more likely, beg. For a man of such stubborn pride, Nyota was endlessly surprised at how readily Jim was able to beg unashamedly for the things that he wanted. In his own way, of course. She tossed her long, dark hair over one shoulder and picked up her stylus, ready to begin their lesson when Jim’s voice unsurprisingly cut her off before she could begin. 

 

“So, I noticed there was a new Vulcan tutor listed on the roster,” he began lightly, feigning disinterest as he picked up his own PADD. Hazel eyes flicked up from the screen and returned in a fraction of a second, having caught the sudden, sharp arch to Uhura’s sleek, dark eyebrows. 

 

“Not that I’m ungrateful to be under you--”

 

The wary uptick to Uhura’s brow was replaced with a beautifully hawkish glare that killed the words on Jim’s tongue. He could feel his throat dry at the withering look and cleared it quietly. 

 

“-- _ your _ invaluable tutelage...But I was hoping to meet them, maybe.” 

 

A groan very nearly crawled between Jim’s lips at how obvious his lie sounded even to his own ears. Nerves fizzled to life in his stomach and skittered down his spine as he considered how unlikely it was that he could keep his intentions from Uhura. Jim slid his finger over the glowing surface of the PADD, tapping mindlessly, opening applications and examining files at random in an attempt to look as nonchalant as possible. The repetitive motion allowed the buzzing, frenetic pressure in his chest to drain through his fingertips onto the PADD’s cool, smooth face. 

 

Nyota made a sound like an exasperated sigh and a chuckle. Jim looked up to see the sharp edges of her scowl smoothed into an amused expression. Relief bloomed in the pit of Jim’s gut, salving the rough-edged anxiety that had been slowly permeating through him with every second of silence. Manicured eyebrows rose knowingly, lush lips quirking into a smirk that balanced amusement and disapproval in a way that was so familiar to Jim by now that he couldn’t help but return a sheepish grin of his own, if not for a different reason than Uhura might have assumed. 

 

Uhura shook her head, dark eyes rolling upward for an exaggeratedly long moment before resettling on Jim’s own. 

 

“Oh, Kirk,” she breathed, her voice the tired croon of a long-suffering friend. “Why am I not surprised?” 

 

She flicked her hair lightly over one shoulder before setting her PADD and stylus lightly on the table and shifting back in her chair. Uhura sat up straighter, crossing her legs daintily at the knee and her arms below her bosom. Jim knew better than to watch the ample curve of her breasts rise and fall over her folded forearms and flicked his eyes again toward his PADD. Uhura scoffed, clearly aware of and not at all impressed by Jim’s herculean effort not to do so. 

 

“Well, unfortunately for you, there’s no pretty new girl for you to  _ harass, _ ” she said, the warmth in her eyes belying the heat in her tone. “His name is Spock.”

 

A sudden flush of triumph lifted the corner of Jim’s mouth.  _ So, this mystery specialist has a name afterall.  _ Jim tried to keep his satisfaction from showing, hoping that his notoriously terrible poker face conveyed mild interest instead of determined curiosity. He set his PADD on the table, forgotten, and crossed his own arms, laying his forearms against the table’s edge and leaning slightly forward on his elbows. 

 

“Spock, huh?” Jim kept his voice light, coloring the question with a smarmy, flirtatious tone so characteristically Jim Kirk that Uhura couldn’t keep herself from grinning. “Sound harassable enough to me. Is he cute?”

 

Uhura rolled her eyes again, the gesture this time entirely lacking the heat of the previous expression. A delicate, amused sound akin to a giggle left her, and Jim couldn’t keep his own grin from spreading even more. 

 

“Oh, how could I forget? Jim Kirk is the chaotic bisexual the universe needs.”

 

Jim snorted. “Hey, I resent that. I’m hardly a  _ chaotic _ bisexual,” he quipped playfully, raising his nose in the air. “I’m just...an altruist.” 

 

A tinkling laugh escaped Uhura at the exaggerated waggle of Jim’s eyebrows that punctuated the statement. Shaking her head slightly, she breathed out another light, joyful sound and continued. “I wouldn’t say that “cute” is the right word to describe him,” she began. 

 

“And just what word  _ would _ such a cunning linguist like yourself use?”

 

Uhura pinned Jim with a glare that did less than intended to quiet the chuckle that followed his question. “ _ Well, _ ” she started, voice pointed with annoyance. “He’s certainly handsome by human standards, and most likely by Vulcan standards as well, although, now that I think about it, he does favor humanoid physiology slightly more than most Vulcans I’ve seen...and culturally, that’s unlikely to be an attractive trait among a race as proud and xenophobic as Vulcans are known to be...” 

 

She trailed off at the end of the sentence, fingers rising to her chin in a contemplative gesture that momentarily dampened Jim’s sense of urgency. As much strife as Jim gave her, Nyota truly was one of Jim’s closest friends, and her fierce dedication to not only learning about but truly understanding alien cultures through studying their languages and practices was what Jim loved about her most. At times, it was truly breathtaking to watch her decipher complex and ancient manuscripts, translating and applying her knowledge with a glow of pride and accomplishment that made her seem positively radiant. Right now, however, Jim lacked the luxury of time, and the look on his face as Uhura silently considered the finer points of Vulcan cultural prejudice must have conveyed as much. With an uncharacteristically abashed look, Uhura lowered her hands back down to rest on the table and continued. 

 

“Nobody knows much about him. The head of the Xenolinguistics department mentioned that he had some pretty impressive credentials, but other than that he’s a bit of a mystery. He doesn’t speak much, and I’ve not seen him interacting with the other Cadets or tutors since he started about two weeks ago, other than lessons of course.” 

 

Nyota’s brow pinched as she continued, her voice somewhat tighter and words coming more quickly than they had been before. “And I know that Vulcans are an  _ extremely _ withdrawn race--I mean, everyone knows that--but he’s just got this sort of, I don’t know, air around him. Like he’s too good to be bothered with the rest of us in the department. I mean, Christine--Nurse Cadet Chapel, you know--thinks that he’s just the most beautiful thing on two legs but I say what good are looks with an attitude like that?” 

 

A strange feeling wormed its way through Jim’s focus to settle at the forefront of his mind. Something between frustration, amusement, and oddly timed arousal. _Oh._ _Vulcans._ Jim swallowed to coat an increasingly dry throat. He heard every other word or so of Uhura’s, but his mind seemed to suddenly be filled with a swirling fog of an irritatingly familiar combination of annoyance and desire. Jim knew firsthand--well, his own hand--just how cold and cruel that Vulcans could be, how sparing with the basest of acknowledgement, conversation, praise. He could recall how quickly and effortlessly a voice devoid of emotion could wring his soul dry of its own writhing, nameless mass of need and feelings. 

 

Jim could feel his body’s response to the recollection of 33’s innately Vulcan austerity in the sudden tightness between his shoulders as well as across his lap. His mind traitorously replayed images of long, delicate looking fingers, a thatch of thick black hair above green-tinted nipples that he was certain had never known the pain of clamps or teeth. Jim was instantly transported to his bedroom in his mind’s eye, panting desperately in his computer chair as he languished in the middle ground between the iciness of 33’s commands and the fire that burned throughout his body as he was made to carry them out. An erection was struggling to grow firmly against Jim’s zipper, the uncomfortable tightness of his pants forcing him to shove away the lustful thoughts and refocus his mind on Uhura, who was speaking more animatedly now, gesticulating pointedly at the empty air between them and insinuating that this Spock was not exactly a charmer.

 

Jim raised an eyebrow at the shift in Uhura’s attitude. Her temper was a part of her own unique, fiery charm, but things like this rarely seemed to get under her skin. The patience and understanding that Uhura applied to differences in culture and custom was a trait that he admired in her, one that he deeply lacked himself. It wasn’t often that Jim had ever seen Uhura lose even a fraction of her cool as a result of being addressed in an unwelcoming way via alien behavior, which must have meant that Spock must have done something that was unmistakably human and equally as unforgivable. 

 

“Turned you down, huh?”

 

Nyota scoffed at Jim in a way that, if performed by any other living person, would have seemed defensive. “What? No. God, Jim, what would even make you think something like that?” 

 

A sly smile slithered across Jim’s lips. “Well,” he said, coyness curling over the word as he stretched the single syllable, his voice raising in pitch. “Obviously you’ve crossed paths, likely more than once since there are only a handful of tutors on the roster for Vulcan this term.” Jim pushed back from the table, leaning back in his chair smugly. “You’re an exemplary translator and instructor, so he couldn’t have insulted your performance; even if he did, it’s not something you’d take personally. And let’s face it, Uhura, you’re not the type to hold a grudge without due cause.” 

 

The look that flashed across Nyota’s face was unsettling. One slim eyebrow raised challengingly, her mouth twisting into a grim line, yet her eyes gleamed with amusement and a glint of something dangerous flashed across her dark irises. She made a soft, noncommittal sound and reached for her PADD slowly, gathering it with nimble fingers before reaching for her stylus. She tipped the instrument up, tapping the screen methodically before pausing. 

 

“For your information, Vulcans are betrothed at the age of seven and bonded as soon as they reach maturity,” her voice was placid as a frozen lake, barely concealing icy depths below. “Which you would know if you ever paid attention in Xenocultural Studies. Vulcans also, by their nature, refrain from casual dating even when unbonded. And, unlike  _ some _ , function perfectly well without attempting to seduce every moving humanoid creature capable of consenting.”

 

The edge to her voice was steely enough to cut the quirk from Jim’s lips. He felt a cold bolt of dread stab at his stomach. As much as he loved her, Jim couldn’t help but want to flinch at the sound. There were few things that he had encountered during his years at the Academy that could trigger his reflex toward self-preservation, and short of Bones coming at him with a hypospray and Captain Pike chewing him out for some or other misbehavior, Uhura’s rage was the one that always seemed to do the trick. He cleared his dry throat, hoping to at least attempt to defend himself when Uhura spoke again. 

 

“And for the record, Jim, even if I had been attracted to that pretentious...to Spock, I’m seeing someone.” 

 

The revelation caused Jim to pause momentarily, mulling over the possibilities that immediately came to mind as Uhura’s potential suitors. The idea had merit, and a part of him was amused and fascinated by the concept of Uhura actually relenting to some lucky Cadet’s pleading to take her out just once. At the same time, the majority of his mind was dedicated to processing what she had said just before.  _ Vulcans are betrothed at the age of seven and bonded as soon as they reach maturity.  _ The words echoed in Jim’s head, their immediate meaning settling neatly into the most insecure and apprehensive parts of his mind. 

 

_ That can’t really be true, can it?  _ The thought pushed its way to the forefront of Jim’s mind immediately, and was dismissed just as quickly. Nobody knew more about alien cultures than Uhura, and to doubt her would be tantamount to willful ignorance. Since he had to accept that it was true...Jim had no choice but to wonder whether or not 33 was betrothed, or worse, bonded. The two had never discussed marital status, the assumption being that anyone on a notorious hookup app would be single, or at the very consensually non-monogamous. He had certainly never thought to ask whether or not 33 was married, much less if he had been since he was in grade school. 

 

It was a discomfiting notion, and would be for anyone, which helped Jim to quietly accept the immediate surge of concern and discomfort he felt at the realization. It was the creeping, nameless disquiet rising in his chest that upset him the most, the sour heat of it twisting through him in a way that was frustratingly similar to betrayal, and far too close to jealousy for his comfort. The very concept made gooseflesh rise on his arms. He knew the longer he dwelled on it the more his unease would grow, the sinking sensation in his stomach worsening with each moment. At that moment, Uhura flicked her stylus forward, duplicating the current screen she’d been working on in a hologram blackboard between the two of them.

 

“Let’s get started,” she said smartly, the venom in her previous tone lessened, but only somewhat.

 

Jim cleared his throat again, loudly, and reached for his PADD. “Uh, yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, let’s study.”

 

-xXx-

 

Jim rapped lightly on the doorframe of the medical supply room as he poked his head through the doorway. He scanned the bright, sterile space for a moment before spotting a familiarly disheveled head of chestnut hair bobbing along a row of shelving. He stepped in, carefully avoiding brushing his shoulders against the tightly packed shelves, arranged as they were in nearly claustrophobic aisles in the long, narrow space of the room. As he walked, Jim couldn’t help but stare with morbid fascination at the myriad strange, nameless instruments of (surely) torture that peacefully cohabitated beside tricorderes and regenerators. The juxtaposition between the horrid and mundane made Jim shiver with unease. He picked up his pace, turning the corner sharply as soon as he reached it and nearly colliding headfirst with another body. 

 

“Bones!” Jim exclaimed. 

 

At the exact same time, Leonard McCoy let out a sound that he would never admit to being a shriek and stopped in his tracks to avoid crashing into Jim, the PADD and tricorder in his hands nearly slipping from his grasp at the sudden halt. Bones’ usual surly expression transformed instantaneously into a pale mask of shock, melting quickly into confusion, and settling finally back on a grouchy, frustrated countenance that was endearingly familiar, and managed to lift Jim’s flagging spirits despite its apparent displeasure with his existence. 

 

“Christ, child, you damn near gave me a heart attack!” Bones griped, placing the hand tightly gripping his tricorder dramatically over his chest. He took what seemed to be a deep, steadying breath before shoving past Jim to awkwardly maneuver around him in the tight space between shelves. “What are you doing in here anyway?”

 

Jim followed behind, carefully attempting to retrace Bones’ steps to escape the labyrinth of glinting metal instruments unscathed. “Christine told me you were--”

 

“That’s Nurse Cadet Chapel to you,” Bones growled. He stopped abruptly in front of a different shelf, examining its contents closely. 

 

Jim forced himself to a quick halt to prevent himself from colliding with his friend again. “ _Nurse_ _Cadet_ Chapel told me you’d be in here and I needed to talk to--” 

 

Bones selected a long, wickedly hooked piece of metal with what seemed to be a hand grip at the bottom from the shelf. Jim shuddered at the look of it, and jerked back as Bones swung around to face him, the implement held tightly in his grip. 

 

“How’d you even get in here? Chapel wouldn’t have given you the access code to just anyone, least of all you,” Bones groused. 

 

Before Jim could realize he should feel more insulted than he did at present, Bones spun on his heel and continued at a clipped pace through the aisles pausing only briefly to consider another shelf before disregarding it and heading back toward the door. 

 

“Bones, the door was open, look, Bones, can you just--”

 

“What, Jim? I’ve got work to do. We can’t all just sit around all day and...oh.” Bones slowed his tirade to a stop before it could gather full steam as he rounded on Jim and noticed the crestfallen look on his face. He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose and screwing his eyes together in frustration. “Ah, shit, kid, ya know that’s not what I meant,” he muttered, turning to face Jim and doing him the courtesy of attempting to look apologetic. 

 

A soft, thin smile tilted just the corner of Jim’s mouth, his eyes dancing away from Bones’ as they tried to connect with his own. “No, you’re right, Bones. I’ll just call you later once you’re done.” 

 

For the second time that day, Jim felt decidedly betrayed, and the presence of the sudden bout of emotion frustrated him. He turned to walk out of the supply room, unnamed and unwelcome feelings swirling around the dense mass of hurt settling in his stomach, circling his insecurity like crows. Before he had made it far, he felt a warm, heavy hand clap his shoulder.

 

“Come on, now, Jim, you know I’ll never be done in this God-forsaken place,” Bones said, his usual brusque tone once again intact. “But I’ve always got time if ya need me.” 

 

A true smile, small but genuine, tilted Jim’s lips as he followed Bones out of the supply room toward the small clinic and suite of practice labs that made up Med Bay. They walked the short distance in a comfortable silence. Jim cast curious eyes around the scrubbed steel corridors, taking in the brief sight of harshly lit and sparsely adorned medical training rooms as they walked past them. Despite his numerous allergies,  _ highly  _ regular STI testing, and his close friendship with Bones, Jim had spent a surprisingly small amount of time in Med Bay during his time at the Academy. He chalked it up to his deep-seated fear of needles (despite Bones’ scoffing when mentioned), but still found the frigid steel and the constant thrum of machines and hurrying bodies fascinating.

 

They reached the small instructors’ offices just outside of the Med Bay entrance in a matter of minutes. As Bones pressed his hand to the panel beside the stark white door that read “McCoy, Leonard”, a familiar sense of pride bloomed in Jim’s chest. Ten years Bones’ junior and with no rank to speak of, he knew it was absurd for him to feel proud of Bones’ many incredible accomplishments, his skill and precision, but it didn’t stop the warmth that gushed through him as the door to the modest office slid shut with a quiet sound. 

 

Bones took a seat at his desk, collapsing more than sitting in the clear plastic chair and raising a hand to his forehead, thumb and forefinger pressed to opposite temples. “Alright, tell me where it hurts,” he drawled tiredly. 

 

Jim snickered. “Well, doctor, I’m mostly concerned because it burns when I p--”

 

Bones swatted a hand through the air as if the motion could dispel Jim’s words more quickly. “Alright, let’s not get too realistic now,” he grunted, pushing on through Jim’s answering squawk of indignation. “What’s going on, Jimbo?”

 

Jim huffed, but sat up straighter in his chair, throwing a leg casually over one of the armrests. “So I figured out a way to get myself alone with that systems specialist you were talking about last night,” he started casually, swinging his leg idly. 

 

“Who, Spock?” 

 

Confusion creased Jim’s brow. “Uh, yeah, actually. Turns out he tutors Vulcan with Uhura. How do you..?”

 

Bones rolled his eyes at the look, settling heavily in his chair and gripping the armrests. “Well, I’m not surprised that busybody’s up to something else, too,” he replied, a growl sliding around each word as he spoke. “Came in here yesterday nosing around Med Bay, tried to tell me my supplies weren’t being ‘kept up to code,’ the pompous ass. What does he know?” 

 

Jim did his best to suppress a snort as Bones went on, his ire clearly provoked simply by the memory of the man. 

 

“I told him clean off, coming in here on his own authority. And get this. When I asked him who he thought he was to be barking orders in my lab, he looks me dead in the eye and goes, ‘I am Spock, son of Sarek, Science and Technology officer for Starfleet Academy. And you are?’ I tell ya Jim, I nearly took a swing at him. And if he thinks for one damn second I won’t just because his daddy’s some kinda hot shot diplomat--”

 

“Woah, woah, Bones, take it easy, alright?” Jim swung his legs back over the arm of his chair and held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I get it, ok? The guy’s a royal prick. Maybe literally. Who knows. The point is, I have my chance to talk to him one on one, and I need you to help me out.” He backed his hands toward himself as if trying to calm a wild animal, more than slightly surprised that the action was somewhat effective. He watched the fine lines beside Bones’ eyes and mouth lessen with a smile. “Think you can manage without a coronary?” 

 

Bones huffed, blowing a lock of his hair up from his forehead in a way that was so inadvertently adorable that Jim very nearly cooed. His sense of self-preservation stopped him, however, and he instead diverted his attention to the older man’s voice. 

 

“Yeah, yeah. Shut it, you,” Bones grumbled, crossing his arms across his chest. “I don’t know what you think I can do to help you with that pointy-eared bastard, but I’ll do what I can. Whaddya need?”

 

Jim felt a wild pang of anger at the slur, and the shock of it made him react before he could stop himself.

 

“Hey, Bones, don’t say things like that.” His voice came out firm despite his lack of understanding of where the heat behind the words originated. Something about the way that Bones had said “pointy-eared” with such venom made him feel uncomfortable, as if the slur had been aimed at him somehow. He didn’t understand it, but he didn’t regret saying what he had, either. He decided not to let himself dwell on the now swirling confusion and hurried along before Bones could gripe at him some more. 

 

“Anyway, like I said, he tutors Vulcan in the Xenolinguistics building. I know when Uhura usually teaches, but I’m not sure about him. So, if Uhura was, say, busy getting her physical when she’d usually be teaching, coincidentally at the same time as all of the other Vulcan tutors…” Jim trailed off, gesturing vaguely with one hand toward Bones. 

 

The older man raised an eyebrow, the only indication that he heard Jim at all. His bright blue eyes, usually sparkling with anger or annoyance, flicked boredly toward Jim’s hand and back up. After a moment he let out a weary sigh, the light sound somehow dealing a heavy blow to Jim’s confidence in his plan, what little there was that he’d mustered. 

 

“Jim, I gotta tell ya,” Bones began tiredly. 

 

“Do you really?” Jim muttered under his breath. 

 

“ _ Yes, _ ” Bones hissed in irritation. “I do need to tell you that his is one of the most hare-brained plans you’ve ever had, short of trying to cheat your way through the Kobayashi Maru. Yeah, I said it,” the doctor said through the sound of Jim’s mock gasp of hurt. 

 

“Are you really telling me that you think getting an hour alone with this…” Bones hesitated, eyeing Jim before continuing. “ _ Vulcan _ will really change anything about your probation?”

 

Jim grinned smugly at his friend, sitting back in his chair. “C’mon, Bones,” he said, voice round with the weight of his own self-satisfaction, “I think we both know what I’m capable of accomplishing in an hour.” 

 

Bones groaned loudly, his hand coming back up to rub his forehead. “You just won’t stop until you’ve lost every last shred of dignity in you, will you?” he asked. 

 

At the sight of Jim’s non-committal hand gesture, he let out another sound of annoyance before snatching his PADD off of his desk and tapping around with slightly more force than necessary. Jim had the good sense at least to remain silent while Bones worked, looking expectantly toward his desk as the moments stretched on, then quickly looking away innocently before Bones could catch him in his surly expression. After a few minutes the doctor set his PADD back down on the desk with a grunt and looked up at Jim with a mildly displeased expression. 

 

“Well, I got good news and bad news, kid. The good news is I managed to swing what you asked without it being too obvious. The bad news is it’s gonna have to be about a week before I have enough assistants on to help me do  _ six _ physicals in one day with everything else going on around this place.” 

 

Jim made a thoughtful sound, considering. A week with nothing to do but wallow in his own self-pity was likely not the healthiest thing he could think to do at the moment.  _ Well. I could always use more time in the gym,  _ he mused, rolling Bones’ words around his head.  _ I can still bother Uhura at least two or three more times before she refuses to tutor me...again. Besides, it gives me more time to brush up on taking the Kobayashi Maru again. And I’ll still have about a week of probation anyway. _

 

“Alright, Bones, works for me,” Jim said, smiling with a renewed sense of reassurance.

 

“Oh, so glad to hear it,” Bones growled sarcastically. He carded a hand through his hair before glancing at the chronometer display on the surface of his desk. “Needless to say, you owe me, kid.” 

 

The smile that split Jim’s face was brighter than the fluorescent lighting above them. “So what’ll it be this time, Doc? Greek, Andorian, Chinese?” 

 

Bones was already shrugging off his medical officer’s uniform and halfway to the door before Jim stood and followed behind him. He didn’t spare a look back. 

 

“Single malt.” 

 

The sound of Jim’s laughter eclipsed Bones’ grumbling as they exited the office, ringing off of the bare walls of the hallway. He slung an arm around the older man’s shoulders as they walked, adjusting his satchel across the other. As they walked out into the bright afternoon sun Jim patted Bones on the arm, happy to see the hint of a smirk on his lips, and happier still that it remained for the duration of their walk to the nearest bar.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for stopping by the third chapter! Let me know what you think!


	4. (4) New Messages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Alright, so just to address a few things right away: 
> 
> 1\. Yes, I do know that it's been over a month since I've updated. Trust me, I'm just as embarrassed of that as you guys are frustrated by it.   
> 2\. I'm adjusting to an international move and a new job, so my next few updates will likely be similarly spaced out, if not as crazy dumb long.   
> 3\. Thank you to everyone who let me know what they think of this story! 
> 
> Please enjoy the new chapter. I hope it was worth the wait!

Jim swirled his straw in his coffee listlessly, head cradled in his palm as he watched the rapidly melting cubes shrink and float, transparent, mingling with the thin streaks of foam lingering at the surface. The soft sound of the metal sending ice cubes clinking against the sides of his glass drifted through the ambient buzz of the cafe to his ears. It had been three days since his talk with Bones. The days had passed at a torturously glacial pace, and his efforts to fill his days with Academy-sanctioned endeavors had begun flagging after the first. He had taken to visiting the bistro just off of the Academy campus for lunch. Watching people come and go eased the ache of empty hours, and the constant hum of the busy cafe drowned out the insistent grumblings of shame and self-doubt that plagued his waking hours. The small outdoor patio also offered Jim a warm, sunny place to lick his wounds after each tutoring session with Uhura. Her tenuously leashed anger had initially made Jim grateful for the distance of the cafe from the Academy grounds, and today this was particularly true. 

-xXx-

Uhura had returned Jim’s translation exercise silently, which was a first for him. Usually, she would pull up the file on her PADD and have Jim do the same so they could go over it together, all the while delving directly into the mistakes he’d made and finer points he could improve before even formally beginning. Today, however, she’d said nothing, despite the fact that the work she returned was nearly all highlighted lines and correction marks. Jim had glanced over her copious annotations, unsurprised, then looked expectantly at Uhura, anticipating her chastising him for using contractions or euphemisms and pointing out misspellings and syntax errors. He recounted a number of the deliberate mistakes he’d made on the assignment in order to feign the need for tutoring and awaited Uhura’s cataloging of each wrong answer, but was entirely surprised when none such nagging came. 

“Jim,” Uhura had said softly instead. 

Her voice was gentler than normal, almost indulgent by her normal standards. There was a coaxing, unpracticed softness to her tone. A thin line of worry ran between her eyebrows, her mouth pulled downward into a frown that looked wholly out of place among her regal features. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then seemed to think better of it. Her PADD clicked against the tabletop as she set it down, the only sound in the room for several long moments.

“Just go,” she had said, her voice supple and foreign with emotion.

Jim froze, his face contorted into a mask of bemusement, pinned by the delicate command. His confusion quickly gave way to a sudden stab of hurt and a lancing flash of anxiety. Nerves tangled suddenly in his stomach and his abdominal muscles clenched beneath the stiff material of his uniform. He opened his mouth to reply, but to his added horror, no sound left him. He was dimly aware of a voice somewhere in his mind wondering tauntingly if he’d really thought such a stupid plan would work. Another nastily complained of the smarting blow to his ego that Uhura’s blatant pity had caused. A smaller, more tremulous voice asked what else he was supposed to do to get back on campus, to get closer to this Spock person, to get his life back on track. The phantom words grew louder and more erratic, overlapping and repeating until all Jim could hear was the thrum of rushing blood in his ears. 

Embarrassment, a force as unfamiliar to Jim as it was powerful, headed a parade of strong and unwelcome emotions across his mind, cutting through the raucous, shouting thoughts, robbing Jim of the ability to charm, flatter, or cajole. His fingers tightened around the corners of his PADD until he felt the rigid material bite into his flesh. How could he have been so stupid? Why hadn’t he just told Uhura the truth? The voices crowding his consciousness paused their berating long enough to collectively acknowledge exactly how that conversation would have gone before continuing to belittle and deride him. 

He tried to think, tried to reach between the swarming words of self-deprecation for some logic, some explanation, anything that would justify what he’d done. Jim cringed at the scant few words that he was able to produce: sorry, scared, tried, ashamed. Each represented an increasingly pathetic attempt to put to words the swirling cloud of emotion with which he woke and fell fitfully to sleep every morning and night. He felt his breath hitch. 

Jim heard Uhura sigh, but couldn’t bring himself to raise his eyes from the spot on the table where he was staring, contemplating his self-worth. He jumped slightly as Uhura’s hand rose to settle atop his The warmth of her palm seemed to radiate through him, and the voices in his head quieted to a dull roar. He glanced at their layered hands, then up into Uhura’s hard, dark eyes. The look in them was a marriage of pity and frustration that was strangely comforting. 

“I know that this must be hard for you.” Uhura’s voice was familiar once more, sharp in a friendly way that only she could manage. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But you can’t keep bending the rules until they break on their own. Finding new ways to cheat the system won’t change the rules, just the consequences.” 

The words stabbed at Jim’s conscience, half insult, half proverb. He knew that she was right, but hearing it galled him and made him feel petulant and stupid. It was then that he realized with shame that he hadn’t once considered that he was including Uhura in his disregard for the rules, linking her intrinsically to his choices without her consent. A sudden burst of respect and adoration bloomed in his chest as he realized that Uhura had known this and comforted him regardless, shown him patience and empathy that she was far from known for instead of tearing into him for his foolish, selfish scheming like he deserved. He felt nauseous.

Uhura’s hand tightened around his own. “You can’t keep running from how you feel, Jim. Stop being so afraid of being afraid. Maybe fear is a healthy reaction. Maybe fear was what you were supposed to learn all along.” 

-xXx-

The words echoed in Kirk’s mind as he took a sip of his coffee. He rolled the flavors over his tongue, marvelling distractedly at how the bitterness brought balance to all of the other tastes and components of his drink. The realization of this irony left a taste in his mouth as acrid as the dregs on his tongue. He wished he could have told Uhura how deeply her words affected him. He wished that they could be so close that he could have told her that fear was his oldest and closest friend; that there was nothing here, not at the Academy or on this or any planet that could teach him anything about fear that he hadn’t learned in Iowa, on Tarsus. 

The familiar dense and queasy dread of memory made his stomach clench, his hands breaking out in clammy sweat. His knee began to bounce frenetically as he felt heat flood his face and the hair on the back of his neck rise to stand. His heart was hammering, thundering in his suddenly hollow chest. His eyes locked, unseeing, onto the impenetrably dark surface of his cappuccino, the lingering foam trembling in tempo with the shaking of his fingers. They began to water but the burn, any trifling pain, was better than closing them, even for a moment, and risking seeing the memories his mind was attempting to replay. Already the sounds of screams rang in his ears, the dull sound of fists landing punches on flesh, the sharp slap of sweat-slicked skin against too-small hips, cruel, cold laughter, Sam--

Jim was jerked from his reverie as a hand clapped his shoulder firmly, sending him a mile high in his seat, a shrill, frightened sound leaving his lips. The hand jerked back suddenly. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Didn’t you hear me calling?”

Hikaru Sulu dropped himself into one of the empty chairs at Jim’s table and turned to face him. His warm, amiable smile fell into a look of concern almost immediately. 

“Jim, are you OK? You look like you just saw a ghost.” 

Jim blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear his eyes of the moist prickling sensation that had filled them at Hikaru’s touch. He could feel tears welling and hoped that that weren’t visible to the man across the table from him. His heart was still hammering in his chest, adrenaline still rushing from the shock and the train of thought it had interrupted. Jim took a few cool, shallow breaths through his nose, inhaling slowly in hopes that he wouldn’t bely his slowly dwindling panic.

“Yeah, of course. Sorry. I was just in my own little world.” 

Hikaru’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Jim, skeptical. “How are you holding up?” His voice was blunt but without edge or judgment or, blessedly, pity. 

The candid quality of Hikaru’s voice was surprisingly comforting. It was a characteristic of his that Jim had always appreciated, Hikaru’s natural penchant for straightforwardness. It was particularly welcome today, while Jim languished in one of his (up until recently) infrequent dark moods. Mired as he was in a state of brooding frustration, plagued by loneliness, regret, shame, and now recollections of the past, Jim felt a quiet sense of relief in the back of his mind at Hikaru’s presence, and a fondness for him for having asked after him. 

“Fine. Good.” He could practically feel Hikaru’s gaze harden on him as he reached for his straw. He swirled it between the shrinking ice cubes and took a sip. “Really, Sulu, I’m just taking it a day at a time.” Jim brought his eyes slowly up from the mesmerizing whirling of the contents of the cup to cast him a small smile. “Just trying to stay busy.” 

A look of understanding flashed across Hikaru’s face before it was replaced almost immediately with a raised eyebrow and a sly smirk. 

Jim snorted. “No, not like that, you pervert.” He took another drink of his coffee before adding, “And hypocrite, might I add,” good naturedly. 

Sulu raised his hands in a playful defensive gesture. “I make no excuses for my past, but you know I’ve slowed down since Ben and I started dating.” 

The warm way that Sulu’s voice wrapped around the name made a clawing insecurity rise again in Jim’s gut. Loneliness and frustration swirled in him, crushing the fluttering sensation he’d felt at the naked affection with which Sulu spoke of his boyfriend. He shook his head to dispel the notion, disguising the movement as a disapproving gesture. 

“Yeah, if that’s what you call swapping speed fucking for swinging.” 

Sulu chuckled quietly. “I’ll have you know I always took my time,” he said, grinning with self-satisfaction. “And we’re not swingers. We aren’t even married….yet.” 

Jim mimed gagging himself with his straw, though the smile on his face belied his fake disgust. The two shared a moment of lighthearted laughter at one another before settling into comfortable quiet. Jim sighed, leaning his jaw on the heel of his palm. 

“Man, there must be something in the water,” he said jokingly. “First Uhura pops up out of nowhere with a boyfriend she’s being all hush hush about, and now you’re practically dress shopping.” He took a long sip of his drink, then nearly choked as the sudden sound of Hikaru breaking out into laughter caused him to start violently. 

He cocked his head in confusion. “Am I missing something?” 

Hikaru’s laughter slowly died off, the expression remaining on his face a mixture of amusement and confusion. “Well, yeah, you said boyfriend, and it threw me off--” He cut himself off suddenly, forehead creasing once again. “She didn’t tell you.” 

Jim’s eyebrows furrowed further. “Tell me what?” 

A look of genuine discomfort marred Hikaru’s handsome features, followed quickly by a quiet sigh. “It’s not my place to say, Jim. I set a date for her and the person she’s seeing, and she asked me to keep it between us.” 

Jim nodded slowly, realization dawning. “She said she was seeing someone, and I just assumed,” he murmured. “Hikaru, I never knew you were such a matchmaker.” 

Hikaru shook his head, a slightly abashed look forming on his face. “It’s not that; I sort of owed her. A few weeks ago she arranged a date for Ben and I to start seeing someone we’ve been interested in for a while now.”

Jim blinked slowly, the concept not quite registering in his mind. He was nothing short of flabbergasted by the sheer deviance he was hearing from stoic Sulu about him and studious, quiet Uhura. A deep and abiding sense of fascination settled into the glaring holes in his understanding of how and why and really?, despite being overwhelmingly blindsided by the turn of events. His surprise and rabid curiosity, however, were quickly overtaken by a discomfiting sensation of being left out, though at the very least he was able to recognize that it wasn’t done intentionally. Probably. Maybe. 

“I can’t believe you all left me in the dark about your kinky Academy-wide sexcapades.” He had meant to sound playful, but a whiny lilt had snuck into his voice. Jim raised a hand to his chest and gave an overly exaggerated pout in his best attempt to disguise his tone with humor. “Hikaru...I’m truly hurt.” 

Hikaru’s brow pinched at the words, the attempt at a joke seemingly lost on him. When he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly soft and left Jim feeling guilty and petulant. 

“It’s not...Jim, she--”

“It was a joke, Hikaru. Don’t overthink it.” Jim gave him a soft smile, genuine fondness redolent in his eyes. “What are you doing here, anyway?” He asked quickly in a lame attempt at shifting the conversation. He followed the question with a long sip of his coffee, glancing down into the cup instead of meeting Hikaru’s eyes. 

When he looked up again, it was to see a pink-cheeked Sulu looking down at his own hands. Jim couldn’t keep his eyebrows from shooting up toward his hairline at the out of character sheepishness.

“I actually have a meeting.”

Jim felt a smirk split his face at the attempt to sound aloof. “Oh?” He began, leaning farther forward on his elbows. “A meeting. I’m sure it’ll be uneventful. Boring, even. For your star mapping club? Study hour?” The other man’s blush was growing deeper with each word, it seemed, and Jim couldn’t help but notice that it was a good look for his normally severe features, anymore than he could help continuing to taunt him. “No, let me guess, an old fencing buddy wants to catch up and reminisce over a beer. Ooh, no, your grandma’s in town and she wants to make sure you’re eating enough.” 

Hikaru brought a hand to his face, dragging his palm over his nose and mouth in an exasperated gesture that didn’t quite cover either his rosy cheeks or his sheepish smile. “Ok, ok, I’m meeting someone, alright?” Jim’s sense of satisfaction must have radiated in his features, because Hikaru rolled his eyes and leaned his forehead into the hand that he’d pulled over his face. “The guy that Uhura introduced us to. Ben had some leave and already, uh, spent some time with him, but I haven’t gotten to meet him yet, so we’re getting coffee. There. Have I satisfied your voyeuristic streak?” 

A bout of chuckles left Jim softly at the faux exasperation in Hikaru’s tone. He noticed that beneath the mask of annoyance, the man’s lips were still quirked in a smile. With a smile of his own firmly in place, Jim leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Oh, not even remotely,” he said warmly. 

As he said it, he tossed his head playfully for added measure. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a brilliant streak of red that distracted him from launching his next jibe at Hikaru. He turned to look after what it was that could possibly be that color, and noticed with a squint that it was a swathe of curly hair that had fallen from beneath an Academy Cadet uniform hat. The person wearing it had their back to him, and was ordering a the register near the outdoor seating area. Jim’s brows furrowed for a moment. Something about the color was familiar, but from this distance...it could just be his eyes playing tricks on him. He turned his head slowly, facing back to Hikaru, and was poised to continue his playful ribbing of the reserved man when a soft, heavily accented voice sounded from behind him. 

“Heekaru?” 

Sulu’s blush intensified immediately, the rosy pink of his cheeks deepening in a way that looked painful. Jim cocked his head in confusion, eyes lingering on Hikaru for a moment as he turned around slowly to see who had interrupted him. The man (boy?) standing behind him was a Cadet, clad in a red Academy uniform matching Jim’s and Hikaru’s. He was slight, average height with a trim waist and a face that was perplexingly as handsome and masculine as it was adorable and cherubic. His hair was the color of caramel and fell in loose curls that hung down nearly to his hypnotically green eyes. He held his uniform hat in nervously fidgeting hands, and was looking shyly toward Hikaru, seeming not to notice Jim at all. 

Jim turned back around in his seat and as his eyes locked briefly with Sulu’s, he silently mouthed “Wow” and stirred his drink with his straw. Hikaru shook his head slightly before standing, straightening his uniform coat stiffly before reaching his hand outward in greeting. 

“Yes, uh, Hikaru Sulu. Nice to meet you.” 

The newcomer closed the distance between them to grasp Hikaru’s hand lightly. “Hello, Heekaru. I am sorry, I did not realwize you would be busy. I am early, I will come bek after--” 

His voice cut out as he turned to go, and his gaze landed on Jim. His eyes widened, adding a vaguely childlike quality to his already beguiling features, and his hand dropped Sulu’s to stretch before him, fingers splayed in a gesture of surprise. 

“Yomayo!” The man exclaimed, his handsome features melting into a countenance of lighthearted joy that brought a confused smile to Jim’s own face. “I know you! You are James T. Kork!” 

Jim blanched at the enthusiasm in the man’s voice and turned slowly to look at Sulu, who had tilted his head and was staring up at the ceiling, mumbling tersely to himself in Japanese what Jim could only assume was a prayer for serenity. Sensing the man would be of little help defusing the situation, Jim turned back to face the still brightly smiling man before him and nodded jerkily, his hand reaching out mechanically toward him.

“Uh, yeah. Call me Jim. Have we met..?” He allowed himself to trail off, hoping he didn’t come across as rude but more than a little too apprehensive to care. 

The young man didn’t seem to mind, or even notice Jim’s tone as he grasped his outstretched hand with both of his own and began shaking it with unabashed fervor. “Pavel! Er, Pavel Andreievich Chekov! Or just Chekov! Vhatever, is fine.” 

Jim continued nodding as “just Chekov” continued shaking his hand with jarring force, eyebrows raised expectantly. He pulled his hand back gently as his wrist began to ache, and tried to opened his mouth to ask the obvious questions pressing at him when Chekov began to speak again. 

“All of engineering student have hord of your owerride for ze Kobayashi Maru. Many are trying to replicate your process. Of korse, none have manage to. You are wery much a celebrity among us, Jeem. You must be wery, wery proud.” 

The words came out in an excited rush, his voice nearly breathless with excitement. They landed on Jim’s ears in a jumble of accented vowels and admiration that nearly made him blush at its intensity. After a moment, Chekov stilled his stream of congratulations and looked at Jim in silence, before his face crumpled into a mask of embarrassment. 

“Not-not that you ver not before. Your father vas a great man, wery great, and your simulation scores are--” 

“Pavel--” 

Sulu attempted to interject, but the man continued to trip over his own words, growing more flustered with each that escaped him. Jim could only hear a buzzing in his ears as the man’s voice increased in pitch and garbled into a slurry of what seemed to be Russian swears and English apologies. His chest was suddenly tight with frustration and annoyance, the anxiety and hollowness of the morning returning full force at Chekov’s unwittingly humiliating statement. A shallow sense of pride radiated among the sudden, swirling force of shame building in his gut, but was quickly extinguished by the iciness already solidifying inside him. 

Jim looked away from Chekov, his eyes frantically searching his surroundings for anything that could serve as a distraction from his and Hikaru’s overlapping apologies. A moment’s frantic surveillance drew Jim’s eyes to the same strangely familiar head of veridian hair that he’d seen earlier. The Cadet was rising from a table just inside the cafe, near the patio doors. Their back was turned to him now, and as they stood, Jim was able to see a pair of vibrant green hands adjust the hem of an Academy uniform skirt over a shapely bottom and delicately flared hips. Long, toned green legs propelled her from the table toward the sanitation area near the doors and suddenly, a memory sliced through the cacophony of the cafe’s background noise, the hum of a dozen or so voices, and the gentle, exasperated tones of Hikaru and Chekov. 

You look like a mighty fine example of a human male.

Realization crashed over Jim’s head like a wave. Suddenly, his mind was intent on recalling the hologram avatar that had spoken the words to him. The image soared to the forefront of his mind almost immediately, along with the recollection of limbs the exact shade of the Cadet’s lying prone on bedsheets in a matching hue, a heart-shaped headboard, and a more than ample bosom. Jim felt a sudden tightness in his gut. As it was, he wasn’t confident in his ability to identify the feeling, but it existed somewhere in a space between fascination and excitement. He drew on the last vestiges of the memory in an attempt to name the sudden emotion. 

Care to dance? <3

Well...Jim’s eyes caught another view of the woman’s retreating form, drinking in soft curves tightly hugged by a Cadet uniform that he now noticed was tailored in a way that he was certain was not regulation. To his surprise, the tightness dulled to a mild throb in his groin as he watched her move. It had been a while since he was with someone. Well, physically. And what he did with 33 didn’t count as physical intimacy. Not really. Not usually. 

The thought caught Jim off guard, and his mind attempted to accommodate the dismissal of their nightly activities by buffeting his conscious with spliced memories of their conversations. Soon, 33’s inflectionless voice joined the amalgam of commands, desperate moans, overlapping Vulcan and English being shouted, whispered, cruelly mocked. Once again, a raucous overlapping din of voices were crowding Jim’s mind, injecting need, guilt, anger, dejection, and desire into him in the dwindling space between each emotion. As he wracked his thoughts for some panacea for each individual ill that threatened to overtake him, abruptly, Uhura’s voice interjected starkly among the fray. Vulcans are betrothed at the age of seven and bonded as soon as they reach maturity.

Her words cut through the gnashing tangle of emotion that had momentarily overtaken his senses with a cold decisiveness. Jim couldn’t discern where amongst his unsettled thoughts the statement had come from, or why, but their disquieting finality made it acutely and unexpectedly difficult to think about 33 at all. The voices that had been screaming his thoughts and feelings at him quieted into a dazed buzzing, gossipy whispers now focused on the woman with the red hair, distracting him from the jumbled mass of emotion now pressing thickly against his pride. 

The sudden shift in focus made him suddenly angry. He felt exposed, embarrassed, oddly harassed. He hated that he didn’t feel in control of either his own emotions or his own body, as even in his brief bout of turmoil, the dull throbbing in his groin had continued to distract him, reminding him that his body, if not the rest of his conscious self, was in need of attention, of closeness, of touch that didn’t leave him aching for some imagined intimacy or desperate for closure, for answers. He felt another jab at his ego as these thoughts mounted, making him more and more aware that he’d been allowing 33’s aloofness to shape and dictate his needs even out of scene.

On some level, Jim knew that perhaps now wasn’t the best time to succumb to his ego; that that was precisely what had gotten him here in the first place. He was supposed to be learning from his mistakes, growing, moving past his instinctual need to leap without looking. On the other hand, as he watched Gaila’s--Gaila, that was it--hair swing along her shoulders as she approached the door of the cafe, Jim couldn’t help but think that while he was supposed to have been distancing himself from his penchant for instant gratification, that didn’t change the fact that it was both instant and gratifying, two things that in the grand scheme of things, Jim had been short on recently.

A moment later, Gaila turned the corner, leaving Jim’s line of sight and sealing his decision. Any reservations that he might have had (and certainly, he did) about what he would do next were duly noted and compartmentalized somewhere in the vicinity of Jim’s shame and dignity, which was conveniently located in close proximity to his common sense. His long-neglected libido pulsed impatiently, thoughts of 33 and Uhura and his endless days of probation sliding from his mind and replaced with the singular goal of taking Gaila up on the offer she’d made the week before.

“Know what, Hikaru, I’ve actually gotta run,” Jim said distractedly, craning his neck to see which direction Gaila had sauntered off in. He rose abruptly from the table and grabbed his satchel from where it was hanging on the back of his chair. Sulu and Chekov both broke off mid-sentence and turned toward him. 

“I am wery sorry--”

“Jim, you don’t have to--”

Jim slung his bag across his body and pushed in his chair, the sound of it scraping on the floor drowning out the two men’s voices overlapping once more. He clapped Hikaru on the back and gave a casual finger salute to Chekov before turning away. 

“Catch you lovebirds later,” he called over his shoulder. A moment later he was leaving the cafe and heading out into the twilit world, a man on a mission. 

-xXx-

It was a much shorter walk than Jim had anticipated, and, surprisingly, one he’d made numerous times before. He had meandered in vaguely the same direction as Gaila for just about 10 minutes, PADD held loosely in hand in a poor attempt to seem overwhelmingly casual, when the green-skinned woman had sauntered into a familiar building. A grin spread slowly over Jim’s features. He strolled confidently into the place, rankled ego smoothed with each sure step, and took his usual seat at the bar. He shot a friendly, flirtatious smile at C’Tall and placed his forearms on the clear plexiglass counter, leaning forward and accentuating the swell of his toned pectorals peeking from the deep v of his partially buttoned shirt. 

The Caitian returned it with that adorably shy smile of his, feline features adding an innocuously predatory quality to his expression that Jim always, and particularly now, found irresistible. Arousal kindled softly in Jim’s belly. A voice in the back of Jim’s mind attempted to chide him for how closely his desire was simmering to the surface, but was quickly drowned by a smooth ripple of satisfaction as C’Tall jerkily cut off the conversation he’d been having with another patron and walked over to stand before him without sparing a glance backward. 

“Hello, Jim,” C’Tall said lightly, honey-colored eyes glittering in the low light of the bar. “You are here earlier than usual.” 

Jim cast a glance to the chronometer on the wall, running a hand unnecessarily through his hair as he turned his head back toward C’Tall. 1621. He shrugged casually. “Well, it’s 5 o’clock somewhere.” 

C’Tall’s head cocked to the side, one of his ears flicking cutely. “I am not sure your meaning.” 

A quiet chuckle rumbled up from Jim’s chest, his smirk widening. “Sorry, it’s a human expression,” he said, his voice low and warm. “Means I couldn’t wait to see you.” 

Jim caught a flash of pretty pink blush creep up onto C’Tall’s downy cheekbones. It was a curious sight, the cat-man emoting in such a remarkably human fashion, and Jim was prepared to considerate absolutely precious until his ears picked up the faint sound of a purr from C’Tall’s throat. He quirked an eyebrow at the bartender, eyes flitting downward to look at the lithe, t-shirt covered chest and then back up. C’Tall’s odd blush intensified, nearly blending into his russet mane, and coughed unconvincingly into his fist while simultaneously sidling away with a weak gesture to the other patrons and an expression between embarrassment and hesitation. 

Soft laughter shook Jim’s shoulders at C’Tall’s stricken look and he took pity on the man, tossing his head in a kindly gesture toward the rest of the bar, silently giving him the go ahead to escape the painful situation. C’Tall’s ears twitched as a small smile curved his lips and turned from Jim to address the nearest patron at the bar, sitting two stools away from Jim. Jim hung his head, shaking it good naturedly at the reaction he never failed to elicit from the Caitian at least twice per visit to the bar. It was a playful back and forth, very nearly a tradition, that made him feel young and wolfish and wanted. He certainly felt all three tonight--today, a voice in the back of his minded chirped--and Jim welcomed the familiar weight of his ego settling back over his mind. 

In typical James T. Kirk fashion, the longer he sat, greeting and welcoming back each individual facet of himself that he deemed worthy of recognition (a hardly exhaustive list, really) the more distant and impossible it seemed that he had felt things like shame, fear, and despondence. The version of himself that had felt those things and responded in kind with such uncharacteristically reprehensible behaviors as sleeping in, wallowing, and even pouting was fading by the minute, slowly suffocating under the smothering sureness of Jim’s self-satisfaction. He had the sudden, acute sense that he should be celebrating, not suffering. 

Sure, the career he’d been working toward for two years now hung precariously in the balance, Uhura had called his bluff, Sulu and Ben were getting more ass than seemed humanly possible while he himself was in a dry spell beginning to resemble a drought, Bones still wasn’t able to get him in contact with the person who got to decide his future, and he still had to find a way to charm said person--who happened to be an emotionless Vulcan--into giving him a second shot at his own life, but...Well, Jim’s gentle, seldom exercised voice of reason whispered from the recesses of his mind. Maybe let’s save the celebrating for another night. Day. Whatever. Jim rested his elbow on the bar, dropping his jaw into his upturned palm with a soft exhale. His tenuous grasp on his returned sense of self seemed to slip from him with it, so that it was less a sigh and more the sound of him deflating. Either way, I need a drink. 

At just that moment, C’Tall sidled back into view. He was blushing furiously and had a somewhat harassed look to him, his furry ears flat against his head and brow pinched, his full lips trembling in a skittish almost-smile. Before Jim could poke fun at the Caitian’s discomfort, C’Tall plunked a short glass down before him, half-full of an amber liquid, a glossy sphere of ice bobbing in the center. He looked down at the glass then back up at C’Tall with a grin. He raised the glass to his lips without hesitation, tilting a slow sip into his mouth with a wink. It splashed over teeth and tongue, warming his mouth and setting it abuzz with a familiar warm tingle. Jim could feel the tension bleeding out of his muscles, the unconscious tense hike of his shoulders dropping, the tight, dense feeling in his gut unravelling to welcome pooling, liquid warmth. 

“C’Tall,” Jim said, voice a low, teasing timbre. “Jack Daniels? I would’ve flirted with you even more often if I’d known it was how to get the good stuff.” 

C’Tall flushed an even deeper pink and crossed his chest with one arm, rubbing his shoulder sheepishly and casting his eyes downward. Jim couldn’t help the pang of desire that shot through him at the innocent gesture anymore than he could stop himself wondering if C’Tall was as quiet a lover as he was a bartender. Did he moan? Beg? Would he mewl in pleasure or roar in ecstasy? Jim wasn’t sure which he’d prefer more: a keening, breathy C’Tall, blushing into the safety of a pillow or a dormant wild man unleashed into Jim’s unwitting embrace. He made a note to chastise himself for such thoughts later, when he was in better control of his imagination (and his libido). 

“I am sorry, Jim, but your drink is not from me.” The man seemed slightly abashed to say it, and the thought made Jim feel suddenly a shade guilty. “It is from the woman at the table. The woman with the...ah...hair.”

A soft chuckle rumbled up from Jim’s chest. It honestly blew his mind at times how an adult man could manage to be so indisputably adorable. He took another slow sip of his drink, casting a casual glance over his shoulder in such a way that he could have been mistaken for having been adjusting his hair or surveying the decor. There were few enough patrons at the tables in the rear of the bar that specificity was largely unnecessary; namely, there was only one patron occupying one of the plexiglass tables. However, as his eyes scanned the room and locked onto those of his mysterious benefactor, the rationale behind C’Tall’s choice of words became apparent. 

Jim had chalked C’Tall’s awkwardly vague description up to cute Caitian idiosyncracy, but as he turned back to face him, Jim gave the man a slow, sympathetic nod. In his defense, the person at the table was, in fact, a woman. A very beautiful, very green woman. The green woman also absolutely did have hair. Very long, very red hair. The green and red woman was also dressed in a white dress that not only completed the exceedingly Christmas-y look that her hair and complexion created, but that also left nearly nothing to the imagination. A soft sense of pity for C’Tall pillowed the jolt of excitement Jim had felt upon seeing Gaila. For one as ostensibly innocent as he, being asked to bring a drink to the man who always flirted with him by a half-naked green woman who undoubtedly had flirted with him as well must have been quite the practice in embarrassment. 

That being said, Jim mused momentarily. I’m dying to know how it went. Jim raised the glass toward C’Tall before draining the last of it and placing the empty glass on the counter. The Caitian lifted it nearly as soon as Jim’s fingers left its surface and shuffled off to the other end of the bar to wash it, as if sensing Jim’s impending questions. After a quick glance at the now painful looking color of C’Tall’s cheeks, Jim couldn’t blame him. He considered instead the new heat in his belly settling in and around the honey-warm pool made by the glass of whiskey. 

It was a curiously pleasant sensation: the warm tingle of the alcohol, a slight jangling of nerves, and the buzzing of something very like excitement culminating to make Jim feel that recent and familiar sense of being wanted. At the center of the tangle of emotions, he recognized a steady thrum of arousal as reflected on the fact that he had at some point traded roles with Gaila, becoming her quarry rather than she his. To his continuing mingled pleasure and surprise, he realized that she had also countered Jim’s presumptuous gesture of following her here by going even further, making the first move toward concretely recognizing what was now undeniably a mutual attraction. A drop of admiration swirled into the mixture of feelings in his gut, followed shortly by a hot new surge of desire. He did so appreciate those who knew exactly what they wanted. After all, he did do well with instructions when it suited him. 

Jim stared down at the ring of condensation left behind by his glass. His mind was abuzz with thoughts, his emotions whirling around and together so strongly it was a near-physical sensation. For a brief moment he felt oddly bereft, unsure of how to move forward, the count of days since his last intimate encounter echoing more loudly in his mind than his own thoughts. The self-preserving nature of his copious ego--however recently shaken--refused to entertain the idea that he would be rejected, or that if he were to respond that he would do so with anything less than a meticulously compile repertoire of skills and characteristics perfectly suited for this exact situation. 

The water stain glinted up at him once again from the sleek black surface of the bar, its crescent-like arc shining wetly. Jim dropped a hand to the bar and dragged his finger through the water, completing the circle. He thought of the glass, of the drink, of the woman who sent it, each a piece of the puzzle that created the image of himself that he had so missed in recent days, the image that had been painted in bravado against the backs of his eyelids just minutes before. Here he was, simultaneously out of and entrenched in his element; the niggling, listless ennui of the last few days warred with the incessant demands of his longstanding and rampant ego for precedence over his mind, his gut, his actions. It was a discomfiting notion, that he now existed on the precipice of this dichotomy, rather than on the edge of glory, the place where he had grown so accustomed. 

A sudden spark of indignation ricocheted against his ribs. It was joined momentarily by a searing pang of resentment. Jim could feel a scowl forming on his face. He was suddenly revolted at the concept of accepting his life as it was at the moment, shrouded in doubt, dank and dim in the shadow of his future looming in the distance. Yes, he was frustrated, he was angry, impatient and impotent to solve his newest host of problems, but how could he have forgotten in his maladaptive state of wallowing that he was also, foremost, James Tiberius Kirk? He struggled for the moment not to revel in the validation that the realization brought, and summarily failed. 

Maybe his ego had gotten him into this new rash of trouble (and each previous bout before that), but it was becoming increasingly more obvious to Jim that it was precisely the thing that would get him back out of it, starting here and now. The barest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. And if I’ve got to work my way up to seducing a Vulcan, accepting a drink at a bar’s a pretty good place to start. Jim set both his hands on the counter, pausing shortly to savor its reassuring stillness, and pushed his stool back, jaw set and determined to approach the woman at the table. He turned, swinging his legs over the side of the barstool just in time to watch a lithe green body settle gracefully onto the stool beside his own. 

Jim blinked. His eyebrows shot upward in surprise, the cerulean orbs beneath them travelling the elegant length of the woman’s body before locking gazes with her. Jim noticed for the first time that her eyes were a similar blue to his own, but closer to the color of the ocean in a storm than the sky on a clear day. Words tumbled over his brain inelegantly but none managed to escape his lips. Luckily (or unluckily, he wasn’t sure) for him, the woman seemed unfazed by his lack of proper introduction and wasted little time with introductions. She flipped her red hair over her shoulder with a dainty flick of her wrist, nails in a similarly jarring shade glinting in the low light.

“Hey there,” she said in a voice that was at once familiarly saccharine. “I was beginning to wonder whether or not you got my little message.” 

Jim caught the double meaning of her words immediately. Well, that answers that, he thought. At least...I’m pretty sure it does. There was a glint in her eye as she spoke that pulled at the corners of Jim’s mouth and made him feel sure that he’d assumed correctly. He knew that look; it was the look of a challenge. It was a strangely welcome change of pace, being on the receiving end of the cocky, hungry, clever expression he was so used to giving. Jim pulled his stool back toward the bar and swung his legs back over it and toward Gaila. As he did, his knee brushed against hers. Neither of them looked down. 

“My apologies,” Jim replied, his voice the low, slick timbre he remembered using to record his response to Gaila’s message on Offworldr. “Your message was received and enjoyed. I was just gathering up my courage.” Jim let his smirk slide into a wolfish grin, his voice pitching higher. “I have a hard time talking to beautiful women.” 

Gaila laughed a sound that was like both the shattering of fine china and the tinkling of its shards hitting the floor. It was oddly endearing. 

“Oh? Even the great James Tiberius Kirk gets tongue tied around pretty girls?”

Jim suppressed a wince. While he knew it was likely inevitable to go unrecognized after the Kobayashi Maru debacle, a small part of him had hoped she hadn’t known, wouldn’t judge him by his actions. Not those actions, anway. Her voice had been kind, though, with an edge of reciprocal mocking, not judgment or disdain, and Jim replied without hesitation or self-consciousness. 

“Call me Jim. And, believe it or not, yes, even I know that you should thank someone for buying you a drink. Speaking of which...” 

Gaila smiled a demure half-smile as she watched Jim eye her currently half-empty glass of a thick red-orange substance topped by a yellow hologram umbrella. She raised the glass, tipped it slightly toward him in a mock salute. 

“I’m alright at the moment. And no need to thank me,” she said, taking a serene sip of her drink from the long yellow straw. “They’re both on your tab.” 

Jim couldn’t help but smile at her. “That’s only fair. You are way too gorgeous to be buying your own drinks. What are you drinking, by the way?” 

Another tinkling giggle. “Cardassian Sunrise.” 

“Is it any good?”

Gaila took another long, slow drag on her straw. “Oh, terrible,” she replied, her voice warm with a mixture of sarcasm and barely contained laughter. “I only drink them because they bring out the color in my hair.” 

A quiet laugh shook Jim’s shoulders, and he raised his hands in a defensive gesture in front of him. “Alright, you got me. I guess that was a pretty dumb question.” 

The green-skinned woman set her glass down with a quiet thunk and waved a hand at Jim in an abashed gesture. “No such thing,” she said, voice still redolent with mirth. “You’ll have to forgive me. Most of the compliments I get come in the form of free alcohol, so I’ve gotten a bit rusty at responding when someone actually says something nice to me.”

Jim gave a one-shouldered shrug, his smile wide in appreciation for Gaila’s sense of humor. “There’s nothing to forgive. I can be a bit of a creature of habit myself. Look,” he said, his voice jokingly light. “I came here to relax and I’m already outdoing all the other guys you meet in bars. Go figure.” 

At that, Gaila laughed a true laugh, and Jim thought it sounded surprisingly sweet for someone so straightforward. “I see that humility isn’t among your many storied talents.” 

“Ah, who needs it?” Jim said mockingly, flicking his hand in the air dismissively. 

“Ugly people,” Gaila responded without hesitation, her face gone humorlessly still for a brief moment before splitting back into a grin. “And people compensating for something. So, since you’re not the former…” She trailed off with a flick of her deep blue eyes downward to linger over Jim’s lap for a long second before locking eyes with him again. 

Jim met her gaze head on and smiled the easy, casual smile he’d worn for most of his life. 

“I’m scared to ask what you’ve heard.” Jim’s words were colored by his smile. “I don’t do much by way of compensating, but I’ve been known to dabble in daddy issues here and there, as you can imagine.” 

A flicker of recognition passed through the amusement in Gaila’s eyes, flitting away as quickly as it had come. Jim wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t know to look for it, accustomed as he was to life in the shadow of George Kirk. After a beat, Gaila seemed unfazed, however, and lifted her drink from the bar. 

“What a coincidence,” she said lightly before slurping down the last of the beverage in her glass. “I happen to dabble in daddies.” 

Jim couldn’t have been sure which struck him first: the swell of amusement or pulse of arousal, both having buffeted his senses in immediate response to Gaila’s response. Contrary to what he was quite sure Gaila had heard about him, he wasn’t naive enough to entertain the idea that she had been joking, and the knowledge only seemed to inflame both emotions simultaneously. He was still trying to decide which to humor when he forced himself to look away from Gaila’s increasingly alluring smile and called out for the bartender. 

“Hey, C’Tall, two, uh…” He looked over at Gaila expectantly. 

“Cardassian sunrises,” she said directly to C’Tall, handing her empty glass to him as he came near.

“Yeah, that,” Jim finished lamely before turning back to face her at the sound of Gaila’s voice. 

“Huh. I wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at you. You seem like the solidly brown-liquor-as-a-means-to-demonstrate-my-masculinity type.” 

Jim scoffed as he handed C’Tall his glass as well, tossing a saucy wink to the man as their fingers brushed during the exchange. 

“There’s a lot you can’t tell by looking at me.” 

Gaila loosed another of her sharp, delicate little laughs. “Is that so?” She asked, taking her time to look Jim up and down, with none of the negligible discretion she had used earlier. 

“Is it ever.” 

Jim watched Gaila’s thin, auburn eyebrow rise in a graceful arc, her lips curving into a lush smirk that simmered with barely guarded heat. He couldn’t help the thought as it flitted through is mind that he had always found the gesture strangely arousing. Gaila looked like she was ready to speak again, likely say something scalding and playful with a hint of a challenge that he would find himself itching to accept, but she was interrupted by a soft, gruft sound. C’Tall stood between them on the opposite side of the bar. He clutched two long, thin glasses filled with a viscous reddish substance in his furry hands, and leaned forward to set them on the surface of the bar. The sound rose again to Jim’s ears, and he realized that it was an attempt by C’Tall to clear his throat. As he reached for his glass, Jim noticed that the man’s face was a deep shade of pink, and a trail of pinkish skin was leading down his neck into the copper mane of his hair. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim could see that Gaila was also eyeing C’Tall, and--to his surprise--doing so with a level of hunger in her gaze that mildly took him aback. A distant, immature region of his subconscious attempted to convince him to feel put out and offended that Gaila’s eye had wandered from him to the man that he’d had his own eye on for months. A much closer, much more persuasive voice in the back of his mind, however, smoothed his ruffled feathers with a much more sensuous touch, cooing to his frazzled ego that there was not only no reason to be upset, but cause to celebrate, a plan just waiting for his engagement that would suit everyone involved. Resolve draped itself over the squirming, pulsing mass that was his arousal and excitement at the concept, and he closed his mind his around it without another thought. 

Jim eyed flicked his gaze over to Gaila, who was still smiling prettily toward C’Tall. As she noticed him noticing her noticing C’Tall, she seemed to flush, if only slightly, the bright green of her skin darkening to a lovely evergreen just on the apples of her cheeks. He flashed her a wide grin in response and turned on his stool to face C’Tall completely. He raised his glass just off of the bar, tilting it toward him in a friendly gesture. 

“C’Tall,” he called, his voice taking on the deep, playful timbre that most often brought out the pink in the Caitian’s cheeks. “What are you drinking tonight?”

C’Tall made a quiet, disconcerted sound at Jim’s question, as if no one had ever thought to ask him that question before. He began to stammer quietly, looking down at the bar and twisting the rag that he had picked up off of its dark surface. 

“You are too kind, Jim, I--I do not--”   
Gaila interrupted his stammering suddenly. “This innocent creature, drink on the clock? He can’t possibly take part in something so devious!” Her laugh, this time, was a sound like a moan bouncing off of the walls of a high-ceilinged room. 

The sound made goosebumps rise on Jim’s arms, but he didn’t take his eyes off of C’Tall. He stared into the man’s eyes, one brow raised and his usual slanted grin oozing across his face, smooth and sweet as the honey that C’Tall’s irises resembled. And just as good a bait. 

“I think you’d be surprised just what our C’Tall can get himself into. Isn’t that right, C’Tall?” 

As he asked, Jim raked his fingers through his thick coiff of golden hair, trailing his fingers along his jaw. He watched in satisfaction as C’Tall’s eyes followed the motion of his hand, fixated. He heard C’Tall swallow thickly from behind the bar. A moment passed in relative silence, then C’Tall reached a slow hand beneath the bar and produced a short, squarish glass and a tall, cylindrical bottle of a strange looking purplish liquid that seemed to glimmer as it swirled inside the bottle.

“Perhaps...a single drink...will not do such harm.” 

He poured out a measure of the strange, glinting stuff with a hand that Gaila and Jim noticed held a slight tremor. Their smiles were twin stripes of lecherous glee. 

“That’s the spirit,” Jim purred. He raised his glass, locking eyes with Gaila across the rim. The glint in her eye was a giddy star, shining into Jim’s own look of carnal glee. 

“A toast, then!” Gaila said with gusto, holding up her glass toward the two men. The rim of each glass hovered in the air inches away from one another, Jim and C’Tall looking expectantly at Gaila while she smiled voraciously at them both. She dragged her gaze across C’Tall’s cherubic cheeks and peony blush, lingering as if to absorb each minute detail into a private collection of visages. After a moment, she turned so suddenly that her red hair flew behind her as she locked eyes the color of a tidal wave on Jim with a grin that was her unique blend of sultry-saccharine. 

“To deviance,” she said flippantly, raising her glass higher in the air as she held Jim’s gaze in challenge. 

Jim and C’Tall echoed her simple toast, and their glasses clinked together with an innocuously light sound. They tipped their heads back and drank in long, burning gulps, the only moments of silence for the rest of the night. 

-xXx-

By the time their bodies crashed into the front door of Gaila’s apartment, the three of them had devolved from a group of friends walking innocently home from a bar into a cavorting tangle of lust. Jim’s hand gripped the doorjamb to support them, gleefully trapped as he was between C’Tall pressing insistently against his back, trailing sharp, fang-filled kisses along his neck, and Gaila undulating against his front. Jim’s free hand was sliding up the vast expanse of thigh unhidden by her exceedingly short skirt when he was suddenly pitched forward bodily. He manage to land flat on his palms with a hiss, barely keeping himself from crushing the green-skinned woman and being smothered by the man now lying on his back rather heavily. As the door to the apartment slid closed with a quiet woosh, Jim heard Gaila’s tinkling giggle and felt a soft vibration against his back that he recognized as C’Tall’s purring laughter. 

“Whoops. When did they move my scanner there?” Gaila said, voice full of mirth and husk and slurring only slightly around the edges of each vowel. 

Despite his throbbing erection and smarting palms, Jim couldn’t help but chuckle as well. The sound was quickly transferred into Gaila’s insistent mouth, her tongue plucking the laughter from from his lips into her own. Her arms tightened around Jim’s neck and pulled him closer while thin hips pressed a hard bulge softly into the seat of his jeans. Jim’s own hips stuttered, overstimulated and unsure of whether to push forward or back. He decided on first one, then the other, and soon he had created a swaying sort of rhythm between their bodies, guiding the undulating mass into a lewd almost dance in which the floor acted as the fourth partner. The friction was good, but even in Jim’s clouded, Cardassian Sunrise-addled mind, it wasn’t enough. 

Tearing himself from the silky caress of Gaila’s lips, Jim raised himself to his knees, mindful of the way that C’Tall rose with him, convinced as he was that it was his sole purpose on Earth to create a line of hickies on Jim’s neck and shoulders. He reached one hand behind him, to press gently against the back of C’Tall’s downy mane, and used the other to begin pulling his shirt over his head. Nearly as soon as he began it was gone, thrown carelessly away in a flurry of tufted knuckles and red fingernails. An airy groan slipped between his kiss-swollen lips when two wet mouths latched onto his exposed flesh, C’Tall’s sharp little teeth pressing pleasingly between his shoulders while Gaila wasted no time in pulling at Jim’s belt while sucking his right nipple to complete hardness. 

Jim was buffeted with sensation, near drowning in pleasure and want and the comfortable fuzzy-headed-ness of one too many drinks. Through the fog of his own desire, however, the sound of his belt buckle jingling open and the quiet growl of his zipper lowering cut a clear path to lucid thought, if only momentarily. He dropped a hand, which he realized absently had at some point buried itself in Gaila’s hair, to catch her busy hands. A new jolt of pleasure shot through him as he realized that he could circle both her delicate wrists in one hand. 

“We should move this to the bedroom,” he mumbled against the side of Gaila’s panting mouth. “Easier to change the sheets than the carpet.” 

Gaila nodded with a breathy sound that, left to its own devices, would certainly have developed into a whine. She stood on slightly wobbly legs, an impressive feat considering Jim still had hold of her wrists, and began to pull him up and toward the back of the small apartment. Jim followed clumsily behind her, not sparing a glance back to where he knew C’Tall would be trailing closely at his heels. They walked into Gaila’s bedroom in a sort of debauched conga line, and as they entered, Jim couldn’t stifle a sudden bark of laughter. There it was, the horribly tacky bed from Gaila’s Offworldr message, complete with sheets the color of Gaila’s skin and the frilly red headboard shaped like a heart. 

“Hey!” Gaila said, her voice affected to sound hurt, though her face was lit up with a laughing smile. “You’re a guest. Don’t make fun.” 

She raised her hands, still captive in Jim’s embrace, and pushed against his chest, setting him just slightly off balance enough that he fell backward, landing on the bed with a bounce. She giggled, and the sound made Jim’s cock twitch in his jeans. 

“Now you boys play nice. I’m be right back.” And with that, she turned and walked into the attached bathroom, the door swishing closed behind her. 

Jim let himself fall backward completely onto the bed in an ungraceful flop. He ran one hand through his hair, breathing out heavily. His mind was buzzing pleasantly and his body was thrumming with arousal and excitement and the spark of doing something so undeniably raunchy. He caught himself wondering what 33 might think of this, then chuckled as he imagined the look on Sulu’s face when he told him how his Thursday night had gone. He was still laughing to himself when he felt a sudden pressure against the straining bulge of his erection. 

He opened his eyes--not having remembered closing them--to see C’Tall’s slightly clawed fingers finishing Gaila’s work of unzipping his pants. He raised an eyebrow at the other man, grinning as he watched the abashed look on C’Tall’s flushed face abate into a small, determined smile. It was a beautiful sight, seeing the normally reserved, almost puritanical bartender so deliberately partake in their debauchery. 

“It is alright?” C’Tall asked, his voice nearly a pant. 

Jim nodded, relishing the way that C’Tall rolled his r’s more pronouncedly rather than slurring them as a result of the numerous shimmering purple beverages he’d consumed that evening. He lifted his hips as he felt the Caitian’s clawed fingers hook onto his jeans and underwear, pulling them both down to his knees. Jim lifted his legs, shivering at the feel of sharp claws drawing lines of fire down his thighs, and the heady sensation of being so quickly exposed to the temperature of the room, the air swirling and pricking his groin, made damp by the precum beading at the tip of his erection. He heard a sound somewhere between a mewl and a trill and looked up to see C’Tall removing his shirt, his lips opening in a soft pant as the fabric rose over his head, ears twitching at the disturbance. 

At the sight of them, something in Jim propelled him forward, drawing his legs up from over the edge of the bed to carry him on his knees to kneel behind C’Tall. Heedless of his blatant nudity, he pressed himself to the man’s back and heard another of the curious mewling, trilling sounds as their skin connected hotly. He brought his arms around the warm, furry body to undo the button of his pants, then hesitated, a blare like a klaxon sounding from somewhere in the swirling depths of his mind. 

“C’Tall,” he nearly growled, rolling his hips unconsciously against the man as he breathed hotly into his pointed feline ear. “I want to touch you.” 

The response was immediate. C’Tall bucked his hips into Jim’s fingers, now ghosting across the downed zipper of his pants. He let out a quiet trill and pushed his shoulders back into Jim’s chest, his head falling onto the tanned shoulder. 

“Tell me,” Jim murmured, breath ghosting over C’Tall’s sensitive flesh. “Tell me to touch you.” 

Jim wasn’t sure where this sadistic streak was coming from, as he had always leaned more toward masochism himself, but he enjoyed the gasping sort of purr that rumbled up from C’Tall’s throat in response. He found that as soon as the sound met his ears he wanted to hear more, wanted to be what caused him to sound so desperate, so vulnerable. 

“I--Jim, please, if--I--” 

Jim peeled the sides of the man’s zipper away, exposing white underwear, darkened in a wide splotch where the tip of C’Tall’s cock was weeping its readiness for release. The sight made Jim’s stomach clench with need, his jaw clenching in an attempt to reign in his rampant desire. He breathed out slowly against C’Tall’s neck, and, for good measure, ran his tongue up and along the curved shell of his ear, teeth dragging along the downy tip. Contrary to what his reputation suggested, Jim was capable of patience, and when the payoff was the consent to continue torturing a shivering, rock hard Caitian, he was sure he could manage to wait. For a while, anyway. 

However, the moment his teeth pressed into the sensitive cartilage of C’Tall’s ear, his wait was over. 

“Jim, will--will you touch--please--” 

Jim slipped his hand into C’Tall’s pants and cupped his damp, throbbing erection. “Close enough,” he whispered, and ground his palm into the inflamed flesh. The sound that left C’Tall was enough to make Jim moan in response against his neck. He squeezed the turgid member again and felt C’Tall thrash beneath him, bucking his hips and letting out trilling, mewing, moans that made Jim’s own erection pulse against the slick flesh of the man’s lower back. He could feel the fiery coil of his release winding tightly in his gut. Somewhere in the gray abyss of his mind he knew that he should try to prolong it, but then C’Tall arched back and ground his ass against Jim’s bare cock and the voice went out like a light. Jim left a playful nip at C’Tall’s earlobe and slowly peeled himself apart from him with a breathy groan. He situated himself in the center of the bed, head towards the ridiculous headboard and legs spread lewdly, his erection pointing proudly upward in a slight curve toward his stomach. 

C’Tall had stood, seemingly understanding the hint, and divested himself of his own pants and underwear with his back to Jim. He stood there, finally naked, for a moment, seeming to hesitate for a moment before looking quickly over his shoulder at Jim with an innocent expression that spoke more of insecurity than it did of uncertainty. Jim smiled at him, doing his best for the expression to be one of genuine friendship rather than the cajoling, flirtatious smirks that he usually gave the man. He raised his hand and brought it toward him in a casual gesture that he hoped would assuage C’Tall’s hesitation. 

The Caitian’s ears were flat against his head, a sign of discomfort that made Jim unsure if he should continue coaxing him on, but after a moment’s pause, he climbed onto the bed, crawling toward Jim on his hands and knees in a way that looked far from hesitant. He stopped, his knee against Jim’s thigh, and looked at him with golden eyes clouded with lust and cheeks dusted rose pink. Jim propped himself up on his elbows and brought a hand to rest on the back of C’Tall’s thigh. He pulled lightly on the muscled limb, and C’Tall came with it, until he was fully straddling Jim. He held himself there, his hands on Jim’s chest, for a long moment, the proximity seeming enough for the time being. Then, he began to lower himself, inch by inch until he was hovering just above Jim’s groin. He stopped then, and looked into Jim’s eyes, perplexingly helpless and wanton simultaneously. 

Jim reached out a hand and placed it on C’Tall’s hip. He squeezed the flesh there reassuringly, watching the creases in the man’s forehead recede slightly, and pushed him the rest of the way down until his ass was resting against Jim’s hips. With a soft nudge, Jim pressed against C’Tall’s hip again and shifted his hips slightly until he felt his cock slip into the cleft of C’Tall’s ass, the firm cheeks yielding to the hardness pressing between them. Jim moaned throatily at the sensation, his eyes sliding closed as the sound tore from his chest. He let it wash over him, the feeling of the hot flesh gliding along his aching shaft pushing him that much closer to the edge. His fingers spasmed around C’Tall’s hip, clenching and unclenching with the restraint it took not to thrust wildly up into the heat and softness of C’Tall’s body. 

He cracked his eyes open and the sight before him was enough to coax another quiet groan of pleasure from his lips. Here, bared before him, Jim was able to really look at C’Tall for what felt like the very first time. He couldn’t have imagined that under the loose-fitting shirts and solid colored jackets that the Caitian wore behind the bar he was hiding a taught, well-muscled body. His abs were defined enough to count, and the lean muscles of his thighs bulged and quivered on either side of Jim’s hips, the manhood at their apex much more impressive than Jim had imagined, curving long and thick from a thatch of short trimmed fur that was white in some places and tawny in others. Jim noted with a strange dissatisfaction that he had somehow never noticed either that C’Tall was a Calico. 

Besides the lines and planes of his body, Jim delighted in taking in the Caitian’s expression. His brow was pinched as if in deep concentration, his head tilted back as his mouth panted wetly. Jim could see the white points of his sharp teeth glinting with his saliva, and longed to know how those teeth would feel sinking into his thighs, his shoulders, knicking and teasing him, lovingly threatening his most sensitive areas with the sharp press of fangs. Jim lowered his hand from C’Tall’s hips, fingers trailing teasingly across the heated flesh to wrap gingerly around the base of the man’s cock. He gave a light squeeze, and watched as C’Tall’s eyes snapped open, looking down at Jim with an almost pained expression, his hackles rising up his shoulders. 

Jim wasn’t sure whether to let go or continue for a moment, and opened his mouth to speak, only for the words to slide from him as a deep, bellowing groan before they had a chance to form. C’Tall mewled in response and rocked back again against Jim’s cock, pressing lightly against Jim’s chest to raise and lower himself just so, forcing the erection between his asscheeks to slide pleasurably against his clenching hole and tight, sensitive balls. They shared a groan then, the twin sounds colliding so loudly that they didn’t hear the quiet hiss of the door beside them sliding open. 

Gaila walked into the bedroom in what likely only Orions could consider as lingerie. Her lacey red teddy was completely sheer, displaying her dark green nipples prominently, and her underwear was a red lace triangle roughly the size of a cocktail napkin, stretched taut enough that the outer lips of her sex seemed pursed for a kiss. 

“Well, aren’t you two a sight?” She said huskily as she sauntered over to the bed. In a motion that was far too dancerly for a tipsy woman in what looked like six inch heels, Gaila lifted herself onto the bed and pecked C’Tall on the cheek before swinging her legs over Jim’s chest, the heels of her shoes resting lightly against C’Tall’s thighs. She bent then, and planted a searing, open-mouthed kiss against Jim’s lips that had him bucking upward into C’Tall. His hands released the straining erection that had been in their hold involuntarily, reaching to grasp Gaila’s thin hips. 

Gaila made a pleased sound and pulled away, leaving Jim panting in her wake. She raised a hand and trailed her index finger along the side of Jim’s face, then cupping his jaw, and leaving her finger to rest on his glistening pink lips. 

“Is this seat taken?” 

Jim shook his head automatically, his voice failing him as the question sank in completely. He watched as the woman smiled down at him, quivering from the pleasure caused by the slow rise and fall of C’Tall’s hips and the heat he could feel radiating from Gaila’s body as she rocked herself forward against his chest. 

Gaila lifted her hand from Jim’s jaw to stroke a warm path down his face once more, before bringing it down in a stinging slap against his cheek that tore a shocked moan from Jim’s throat. Her smile turned hard and Jim resisted the urge to whimper, though he was vaguely certain that the time would soon come where he would no longer resist. 

“Good,” she said in a voice that left no room for discussion. And after that, none was needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaaaaaaaat. Threesome? Wild. Inspired. Or maybe I'm just a giant perv. 
> 
> I know it's not the sexytime that everyone was hoping for, but it was important for poor Jimbo's ego (and his dry spell just need to end, it was getting out of hand.)
> 
> Like I said before, updates are unlikely to get much more common, but I still appreciate y'll giving me the time of day! Let me know what you think!


	5. (5) New Messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Morning After and a half-hearted apology becomes a (more or less) whole-hearted goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, oh boy. What a wait y’all had. I apologize for the delay in posting, but life so has a way of derailing plans. 
> 
> Either way, we’re one step closer to the big irl meetup that you’ve been waiting (much too) patiently for. Yay! As far as I can tell, this chapter doesn’t have any additional content warnings beside mentions of alcohol and some mild/implied slut shaming. 
> 
>  
> 
> Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

“Sonuvabitchwhat,” 

James T. Kirk jerked bolt upright, legs splaying and tangling among the folds of silky satin sheets. He regretted the decision immediately when the abrupt motion resulted in a sudden flaring pain behind his right eyeball not unlike a white-hot spike being driven into his skull and a slow, soul-deep churning from his gut that made his body sway unpleasantly. Jim groaned weakly from the jarring force of his body’s response to the motion. All of him felt blanketed by a sick gray haze, and he hunched forward, bringing a hand up to cradle his pounding head. The movement set a familiar dull ache yawning across the small of his back and neighboring parts beyond. 

“What the hell,” Jim murmured, his voice catching drily on each syllable. 

Speech proved very nearly beyond him, if the roiling acid heat of his stomach suddenly surging into his throat was any indication. Jim pressed his clammy hands against the mattress beneath him and grimaced as his palms sank into the too-soft surface, his elbows shaking to hold his weight against it. With no small amount of effort, Jim clambored across the surface of the bed, trying to minimize the slick rocking of his body against the mattress, when his hand pressed against something warm and yielding, and he retracted it with a yelp. 

Jim looked down slowly, blinking his eyes hard to clear their bleariness, then hissing at the pain it set off in his head. Gradually, the slow outline of a hand with tawny fur tufting each knuckle solidified, just as realization did the same in the hazy recess of his addled mind. The recollection of the night before returned in less a flood and more a continuous drip, like a leaky faucet: unbidden, unrelenting. The brown liquor, the glimmering purple liquor, the saccharine murky red liquor, then rounds of a sparkling yellow liquor that left the tongue stinging pleasantly, shots of a greenish liquor that smelled like a bonfire but went down surprisingly cool. The sweet glide of two wet tongues. The savage pleasure of four hands scrabbling over superheated flesh. Gaila’s knees beside his ears, C’Tall’s claws tearing his flesh, rough tongue soothing the intimate damage. 

The pounding at the base of his skull and twinge at the base of his spine formed a damning sketch of the night’s activities. Jim breathed out another quiet groan, this time a mixture of nauseous unease and begrudging amusement. There was no denying the bone-deep satisfaction adding a pleasurable lethargy below the groggy, off-kilter film of his hangover. He tried for a moment to replay the exact events of the evening behind closed eyes, but the sudden spinning sensation that accompanied the darkness pushed him a step closer to the nausea that was threatening to overtake him. 

After taking a moment to settle his stomach, Jim continued his slow crawl across the mattress. He placed his hands carefully on the spongy, silky surface so as not to disturb the paw-like hand curled gently before a handsome, feline face obscured almost entirely by the alarmingly green silk sheets. As his feet--after an eternity--touched the cold floor, Jim flexed his toes, then rolled his ankles and felt the familiar painful comfort of his calves stretching taut. He grimaced at the sound of his joints cracking, then sucked in a tight breath as the sharp noise seemed to echo across the room. 

Jim held it stiffly for a tense moment, slowly turning his head to peek at the sleeping figure of C’Tall. His ear strained to hear any shift in the Caitian’s form or quiet, even breathing over the sound of his anxiously pounding heart. He stood, frozen, half off and half on the bed, buzzing with illogical suspense, for a handful of flurrying heartbeats before allowing himself to slip smoothly from the bed and land with a spry half-hop on the balls of his feet. The resulting wave of nausea nearly tipped him back onto the mattress, but Jim used the momentum of his lurching stomach to propel him forward into the room on clumsy, trembling ankeles to begin the arduous task of hunting down his pants. 

-xXx-

Jim tiptoed, barefoot and shirtless, into the narrow hallway that led from the bedroom into the rest of the modest apartment thinking that “modest” was an appropriate term for Gaila’s home in terms of size only. The decor was an impressively consistent representation of Gaila as a person, as far as Jim could tell. Every wall and shelf was overrun with paintings, tapestries, photographs, and kick knacks that seemed to originate from a number of cultures and planets. Any other time, Jim would have appreciated her eclectic, eccentric style and taken the time to comment and explore, but as it was, the hodge podge of colors and patterns made his eyes swim and stomach roil. The dry sting behind his eyes made him wonder vaguely if Gaila had been kind enough to scare up a pot of coffee before she’d disappeared to--wherever she must have gone. Jim’s stomach gave a mighty clench that made him second-guess the thought just as his feet carried him sluggishly into the living room and proved him only half wrong. 

Gaila was sat comfortably on her couch, her veridian hair tied up in a beautifully dyed headscarf, PADD in one hand and a steaming glass mug in the other. Her legs were folded under her and her face was thickly smeared with what looked like blue-ish mud. The soft glow from the high window was dappled and gray on her bright skin, and Jim noticed for the first time that the light was wavering and filled with pinpricks of shadow: it was raining. Curled as she was into the soft-looking sofa, unperturbed and softly settled, she made for a startlingly innocent and idyllic scene. Or, she would have, if she hadn’t been stark naked. 

The sound of Jim’s unsteady footfalls roused her just before Jim entered the cozy space. Gaila turned her head jerkily, eyes glued to the screen of her PADD for an elongated moment as the rest of her turned toward Jim. He stepped into the room just as her eyes lifted from the screen to appraise him, loitering in the doorway, navy depths lit with amusement and only a hint of surprise. A wry smile slanted her full lips, pinker in the low light. 

“My, my,” Gaila said, her voice dewy with the sound of barely contained laughter. “You’re pretty tasty as a swaggering little snack in a leather jacket, but groggy and freshly debauched you look beyond edible.” 

Jim didn’t have the energy to make himself seem abashed, instead accepting her praise as easily as any other mundane observation with a weak smile. Gaila shifted and Jim assumed it was to cover herself, but she only unfolded her legs and stretched in the slow, languid way of a lounging housecat. The movement gave Jim a sudden glimpse of the neatly trimmed trail of auburn hair along the center of her green mound and this time he did look away abashedly. 

“A bit late for modesty, Jimmy,” Gaila said into her coffee. She took a deep sip from the mug, then lowered it and held it in both hands. “Your shirt’s on the table, by the way,” her voice was still lilting with amusement, but a friendly warmth rounded the edges of her words. “Not that I’m complaining about the view, but if you’re feeling...self-conscious.” 

Jim tried to seem guileless as he crossed the room to retrieve the shed article of clothing, and shrugged it on with markedly less enthusiasm than he imagined it had come off. He chose to believe that he left it unbuttoned purely because he was too tired to bother and reflexively looked around for his shoes. Spotting them laid neatly by the door--clearly another small kindness by Gaila--he started toward them before halting, acutely embarrassed by his inadvertent yet blatant rudeness, and turned instead toward Gaila. He glanced sheepishly between her and the door, finding himself uncharacteristically tongue-tied, his dry, sour tongue heavy in his mouth. Gaila did not seem to share his condition, however, and the sound of her voice cut through the awkward space. 

“Oh, don’t let me keep you from your little walk of shame,” she said. Her voice was light, but Jim could hear an edge where there had been lightness moments before. “It is sorta interesting to be on the other side for once.” 

She took another sip of her coffee, then cut off Jim’s half-hearted protestations before he could fully form them. “It’s always the pretty ones,” she sighed, setting her coffee mug down on an outstretched knee. “Last week it was that tragically gorgeous xeno-whatever student,” she pouted more to herself than to Jim, her eyebrows creasing sharply if the sudden crack in the mud on her forehead was an indication. “She speaks 12 languages and couldn’t bother to use any of them to say “call me” before she skittered out of here. Now you don’t even bother with a “good morning” before you’re headed for the door half-naked!” 

Jim opened his mouth, assuming that words would follow the motion, but was unable to make a sound in the wake of the pieces of Gaila’s pouted lament clicking together loudly in the echoing chamber of his blank mind. Evidently, his face betrayed at least to some degree the short-circuiting distress he was in while trying to come--very quickly--to terms with what he’d learned, since Gaila snickered and waved a hand at him. 

“Kidding, Jimmy, relax. You look like you could use a cup of coffee. Or three.” 

A dumb nod was the best that Jim could manage while the shock and fascination of his newfound information attempted to settle among the clumsy firing of his dulled and exhausted synapses. Gaila laughed again, this time more heartily. She set her PADD down on the sofa and stood, pulling on a sheer burgundy robe that had been lying beside her. 

“I think I can manage that. How about a little...hair of the cat to go with that?” 

Jim couldn’t stop the breathy chuckle that slipped between his lips as he followed Gaila into her small kitchen and all but fell onto the counter to wait for the drink to brew. The silence between them was comfortable now, punctuated as it was with the soft, mundane sounds of the stove heating, water running, the hiss of the hot water as Gaila poured it into her vintage French press, the splash of liquor hitting the mug. The minutia was comfortable, the warmth of the kitchen and Gaila’s body, so close to his own, welcoming in a way that was dishearteningly unfamiliar. He found himself feeling a kindred comfort with Gaila, if not fondness. 

Before he had time to dwell, a steaming mug was pressed into his hands. Jim made no attempt to retract his fingers from under Gaila’s as she passed the coffee to him, and thanked her softly with a smile. She smiled at him warmly and let the mug go, stepping back and leaning against the opposite kitchen counter. 

“Drink up.” 

Jim nodded and brought the mug to his lips and took a deep whiff of the steaming liquid. The deep aroma of the real, non-replicated beans and the familiar sharp tang of whiskey enticed him to bring the cup to his lips despite the likelihood that the first sip would likely be too hot to be enjoyable. He tipped the mug and let the drink splash, scalding, against his tongue. He didn’t flinch. The quiet sting of the minor burn honed the edges of his mind back to alertness, the heat that radiated from his chest uncomfortable but steadying, cleansing. His eyes fluttered shut and Jim took a second sip, then a third. He sighed contentedly as his belly pulsed with a comforting warm slosh that dissolved the last of his nausea. 

“Thanks,” he said, his voice gravelly and still slightly thick. “For...everything.” The words fell lamely on his own ears, but he found himself still bereft of the necessary energy to feel embarrassed. Gaila just giggled her tinkling giggle. 

“You’re very welcome, Jimmy. Orions are well-known for our...hospitality,” her words curled around every word like a cat’s paw. “And what little we ask in return you’ve been more than generous enough to give. Three times.” 

She had the decency not to wink, but the tone of her voice would have made the gesture unnecessary. Jim laughed as much at how quickly he felt his eyebrows lift to his hairline as at Gaila’s crassness. He tipped another gulp of coffee against his wide smile. It still hadn’t quite dissipated when he spoke again. 

“Speaking of repayment, redundant or otherwise,” he added quickly. “You want to catch breakfast at that place up the street? Or, I could cook you something, unless you’d rather just Replicate--” 

Gaila was laughing again, her delicate green hand rising to hover over her mouth. Jim saw the mud crack around her mouth from the breadth of her smile. “Jimmy Boy, ever the gentleman,” she giggled, words laugh-tinged. “Really, there’s no need. Besides, if I were to eat anything for lunch, it would be you.” 

Jim’s lips parted to make way for some witty retort, but he stopped as the whole of her sentence settled over him. “Wait,” he said tensely. “What time is it?” 

Deep blue eyes flicked over Jim’s shoulder then back at him, a sculpted red eyebrow quirked in bemusement. “1341.”

A low groan slid out from between Jim’s teeth. He raised the coffee mug in both hands and pushed its warm side against his forehead, nursing a headache that had nothing to do with his hangover. How had he let himself sleep so long? Shit, what was he supposed to do today? Bones, maybe...or..shit, he couldn’t remember. 

“Gotta run after all?” 

Gaila’s words held no malice, and--blessedly--no disappointment, but her face was cool and her voice even keeled. 

“I didn’t realize it was--yeah, I do.” Jim refused the embarrassment that was attempting to creep up his neck and into his own voice. “But, you know where to find me any given Thursday at 1630.” 

He set his mug down on the counter with a soft clack, and took the two steps forward in the narrow kitchen that would bring him inches from Gaila’s face. He pressed a soft kiss to her clay-laden cheek and pulled away with his dazzling megawatt smile. 

“Besides,” he said as he turned to walk out of the kitchen, showing less grace than Gaila had as he winked salaciously. “I still owe you that dance.” 

-xXx-

Falling face first is something that most people do their utmost to avoid on a daily basis. As a rule, doing so tends to run afoul of the natural preservation instinct in most bipedal species. As Jim entered his bedroom, however, preservation became immediately secondary to exhaustion, and he let his body flop bonelessly onto the warm, yielding surface of his bed. He felt his nose squashed unpleasantly and his face enveloped in the suffocating warmth of his mass of pillows. His lungs, try as they might, pulsed dully in need of air but the encompassing warmth of the pillow pile was sweet, and very nearly lulled him into believing that oxygen was a luxury that he could do without, not worth sacrificing his comfort. He languished in the damp, dark heat for as many breathless seconds as his body would allow, savoring the silent blackness until he could no longer and pulled his head back, panting, and let it fall to the side against the pillows. 

Jim sucked in lungful after lungful of cool, semi-stagnant air. His pulse began to slow. The points on his temples that had begun to bead with sweat cooled. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he saw and perceived nothing, and he was grateful. The generously spiked coffee he’d had before leaving Gaila’s apartment had done wonders to calm and steady him, and he only now began to realize that his quaking knees, roiling stomach, and blinding headache had all abated down to almost nothing, culminating in an vague malaise gnawing at the edges of his thoughts of productivity. In that moment he knew that the most he was likely to accomplish was to lie down, drink half as much water as he likely needed, and possibly--hopefully--take a shower. A real, hot, soap and water shower, not sonics, he noted mentally, and the beauty of the thought actually lifted the leaden veil of certainty that had fallen over him as he sunk into the pillows. 

He slivered open an eye, just enough to make out the hazy outline of the computer console. Maybe I’ll even check my messages, see if there’s something I can get done today. Jim shifted slightly on the bed, and the dull twinge at the base of his spine seemed to reply, Don’t get ahead of yourself. Jim begrudgingly conceded that doing anything past the taxing activity of remaining standing in the shower for his necessary minimum of 30 minutes was likely over-ambitious in his current state. He sighed at the fragility of his current state, conditioned frustrations rising one after another, crowding his already oversensitive mind, still tender with headache. Why did I let myself—Jesus, what did I—What am I going to—

Jim groaned loudly into the silence of his room. The urge to bury his face in the pillows again until his lungs ached and tightness rose hot in his throat. He settled instead for a frustrated huff against the plush material and began the arduous task of pushing himself off of the bed and toward the bathroom. His feet slapped against the floor as he slid out of bed, and another groan accompanied the motion. As he hefted his upper body vertical, he blew out a breath that he told himself was a grunt of near exhaustion and not an annoyed huff at the symphony of cracking and twinging his body made as he moved. He stood for a moment, leaning this way and that, determined to stretch and twist the ache from his muscles before letting the hot water unwind them completely. 

Satisfied after a few minutes’ calisthenics, Jim trudged toward the bathroom. He shed his shirt on the floor as he walked, and unzipped his jeans. His pants were only just too snug to allow the material to fall on its own, and he used his toes to work the legs down inch by inch as he held tightly onto the sink, not daring to test his recent lack of nausea by bending over. A brief bout of wiggling and a surprising amount of tarsal dexterity found the jeans crumpled on the floor. With a silent cheer, Jim stepped into the shower and quickly adjusted the settings to maximum water pressure and raised the water temperature to something closer to relaxation than utility. As the water flowed over him, Jim let out an involuntary moan of satisfaction. He could feel his muscles unwinding, the ever-presence twinge of his lower back loosening, his mind clouding over with the steam that was rising from his body. The spray beat down in an even, comforting torrent, and Jim rested his head against the cool shower wall, gratitude for endless hot water heaters the last thing he let himself ponder for the next 45 minutes. 

-xXx-

Jim exited the shower after nearly an hour, damp, warm, and weightless as the steam that trailed behind him. The queasiness and weakness of his muscles, the grogginess girding his mind against focus and throbbing behind his eyes had seemingly dissipated into the musky, pine-scented clouds that had gathered in the cramped space of the bathroom. Now, freed of the small quarters, his weaknesses and insecurities floated harmlessly away, leaving him loose and sated and finally as smug as anyone of James Kirk’s prowess would be after a night of drinking and debauchery. He pretended that the distinct swagger to his walk was a response to what had been a distinct soreness of the lower back, and the thought pleased him just as much.

There was a lightness, too, and a legitimate warmth, deeper than the tingling tightness of his skin. Only now, free to bask in the afterglow of the night, did Jim realize that the weightlessness he felt was in fact the absence of the loneliness he’d been shrouded in. He couldn’t have known how heavily it weighed on him to be isolated until he had been presented with the familiar, irrevocable truth of being wanted, desired, the feeling lifted a weight from his shoulders, and he was grateful to be free of it. The lightness of his body also affected his mind, and he pondered wistfully how good it would feel to crawl under his covers, how deeply he could sleep what remained of the day away.

The idea of a slow, lazy day, syrupy hours dragging sweetly into one another as he drowsed, leeched the motivation from his bones. Any hopes he’d had of lofty goals like accomplishing anything or putting on pants seemed to melt like wax, his blankets pooling around him, warm and yielding. Jim let his eyelids droop and turned his head, settling into the soft mountain of pillows, a secret indulgence that he was endlessly grateful for. He lazily drank in the stark, familiar facade before him: the aluminum walls, the matching desk, his console with its methodically flashing green light, the narrow, high set window letting in a stream of the hazy light of a rainy San Francisco afternoon. 

The long, satisfied moan that had been building in Jim’s chest died a slow, painful death and slid from between Jim’s lips as a groan of frustration. Most, given the day (and night) that he had had, wouldn’t bat an eye at the notification light. Most would have ignored or not even noticed it, and continued sinking, joyful and boneless into the welcome embrace of the pillows, the tender swaddle of the downy comforter. Jim Kirk, however, whose sole deficit lie in attention, busybody extraordinaire, supremely inept at ignoring anything, no matter how potentially detrimental to his health, could not bring himself to ignore the blinking green light. To do so would be heretical to his nature, just short of impossible, and the blinking would bug him to no fucking end. His mind, primed as it was to fade into the dark mindlessness of sleep, tried valiantly to send optimistic messages to the forefront, but he swiped them away and pushed himself up to sit, blanket pooling in his lap. 

“Computer. Messages,” he huffed resignedly. 

The console let out the familiar pinging sound of assent and a moment later the surly sound of Leonard McCoy’s voice filled the room.

“Jim? Bones. So I got Fleet Med to send me a few new Nurse Cadets for the physicals this week. Don’t know why I’m goin’ along with your cockamamie plan but here we are. Lord knows what it’s gonna cost me in overtime and extra credit.” 

“C’mon, Bones,” Jim groaned, rolling his eyes at the familiar lilting grumble. 

“Not like you care. Anyway, if you’re gonna go through with this nonsense, do it tomorrow while I’m knee deep in bumbling children.” Bones paused and his voice suddenly took on a sharp, barking quality and seemed to cut momentarily away. When he returned it was with a markedly grumpier tone. 

“--surrounded by idiots--Anyway once you’re done tryin’ to work your voodoo on a damn Vulcan haul your ass down to Medical and help me wade through all the clerical this shit kicks up.” 

Jim’s eyebrows furrowed at the obvious question that mounted on his lips the moment that Bones’ lips cut in. 

“And don’t you worry about Pike. I’ll sign off on whatever to say I need you here to pay me back--You’ve got to be--bye, Jim.”

Jim couldn’t stop the quiet chuckle that battered its way through his chagrin. How Bones had managed to maintain a job with his bedside manner would forever remain a mystery. He seemed to be the only person that the doctor’s brusque and taciturn personality couldn’t turn away. Jim had described Bones’ nature to him once as “begrudgingly charming” to try and explain his resiliency to Bones’ temper. It hadn’t gone over as well as planned. 

“Alright, what else ya got?” Jim asked the console. 

“Communicator message will be archived for 30 days,” the console replied monotonously. Another chirp sounded, followed by another announcement. “Application: Offworldr. Five new messages.”

Though logically, Jim knew that the passive voice of the console had paused to wait for his next command, it seemed in that moment that it had frozen, hesitant, expectant, as tense as Jim himself felt at the mention of Offworldr. It had been almost a week since he’d been able to bring himself to check the application. The specter of Uhura’s clipped words about Vulcans being betrothed as children hung over him each time he’d thought to contact 33, and left his gut squirming with an unnameable emotion that was more than he wanted to face. He realized with mounting concern that now he had an added layer of unsureness, one that included a green-skinned woman, a cat man, and a low garment to beverage ratio. 

He wasn’t sure if he was expected to tell 33 about the threesome. He didn’t tell him about anything except his fantasies, his desires, his classes, his friends, his dreams, his frustrations...Damn. Jim let a frustrated sigh drive him upward, his hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose as he realized that he’d lost all hope of his comfy, lazy day in bed. Even if he ignored the messages now, they’d buzz around inside his mind like so many mosquitos and keep him from doing anything else. In the category of things that Jim found endlessly annoying, he couldn’t keep himself from mulling over why he felt not only frustrated but apprehensive about talking to 33 after so much time. 

They had spent over half a year now talking almost every day, even if it was non-sexual or just to say that one or the other was too busy to scene. Jim would give 33 a heads up if he was entering a particularly difficult or busy time at the Academy, like midterms, finals, and simulators, but would always make sure that he managed to send a few flirty holos or a short video of himself in the shower or touching himself before bed to let 33 know he was thinking of him. Likewise, when 33 was mired in the shadowy computer work that he never elaborated on much, he would alert Jim that he would be away, always for specified amounts of time, and never late or underestimated. In times like those, he always left lists of instructions for Jim to follow in his absence, and would request holos and videos to peruse later.

And yet, in the past week, Jim had said nothing. In his defense, he hadn’t known what to say. I’m mad at you because I never thought to ask if you’re fucking married? Jim blew out a breath. Or if you’ve been married since primary school? He tightened the grip on the bridge of his nose in hopes to prevent the migraine of the earlier morning from returning. I guess it’s my own fault...Or, I don’t know. You’d think it would come up. So maybe it means he’s not bonded after all. The hopefulness to Jim’s words, even confined to the private chamber of his thoughts, was enough to embarrass him, a layer of anger quickly girding the frustration and annoyance bubbling up from his chest. 

Jim took a calming breath and pulled himself up from where he’d sunk into his mattress. As deeply as the situation unsettled and frustrated him, he couldn’t shake the idea that he’d solved his problem with ignoring it. As good as those distractions felt, it wasn’t like him, and the decision sat poorly with him. At the very least, he knew, to assuage the sick sense of guilt, frustration, and patent curiosity, he could see what 33 had said to him and then go from there. He made his way to the chair in front of his console and fell gracelessly into it, resigned. 

“Go ahead.” 

The console binged again, oblivious to Jim’s turmoil, and in a moment the familiar Offworldr homepage was spreading across his console screen. Not long after, the equally familiar avatar appeared, and beside it, three text messages. The sight of the small, computer generated avatar 33 brought the familiar excitement as usual

3372.7.159.67: Are you available this evening?

The spike of lust that he had been conditioned to feel at the sight of the seemingly innocuous question soared to the forefront of his mind, dimming momentarily the sounds of his emotions colliding beneath the surface of his skin. His eyes darted to the time stamp just after the letters. It read out the date of the day he had spoken to Uhura, and a small part of his guilt assuaged itself. Even in the absence of his recent emotional turmoil, the day hadn’t lended itself to naughty thoughts after their conversation, and he could justify having left the message unanswered. It was stamped with the exact same time, to the second, one day later. 

3372.7.159.67: Are you available this evening?

Jim felt a pang in his gut he chose not to name and continued reading, eyebrows furrowed. 

3372.7.159.67: It seems that you are either predisposed as of late or no longer seek to fulfill your agreed upon role in our arrangement. 

He couldn’t stop a scoff from leaving him at the tone of 33’s words, so practiced in their deliberately targeted austerity that it was like he could hear the typed words aloud. He couldn’t stop the smirk that formed on his lips, either, or the sinking feeling that followed as he noted that this message was dated three days from the first. Jim read on. 

3372.7.159.67: If you are unhappy with our current arrangement, you may inform me of how I may have neglected your needs without fear of reprisal. It has been and continues to be my intention that you feel confident in this. If you do not, the fault lies with me. 

3372.7.159.67: I am available if you desire conversation on this or any topic at the usual time. 

What had been a tense sinking sensation moments before became a heavy feeling like plummeting through his chair and into the floor. He felt queasy and offkilter, his eyes blinking rapidly as if their motion could dispel the words on the screen. A sick fear gripped him. Had he run him off? Was 33 finished with him? Was he angry? It was so impossible to tell most of the time. For a brief, hysterical moment Jim considered that perhaps this was for the best, a blessing in disguise. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep talking to 33, didn’t know if he could bring himself to ask after or not he was bonded, and the man had left things vague, open ended. The ball was in Jim’s court. He could choose to respond or just walk away, Scott free, never having to face the awkward, potentially hurtful answer. Never know. Always wonder. 

Jim allowed the thought to fizzle out, defeated. He could never live with himself if things ended this way. A voice in the back of his mind whispered that he never wanted them to end at all, but he let the words fall into the ether and focused on the present. He knew, innately, that it was a non-option to ignore the messages, even if he dreaded addressing the questions he had about 33 being bonded. It would be cowardly and unkind, a breach of BDSM etiquette, and Jim thought, somewhat ashamed, he’d miss the stern taciturnity and the way it made him submit without intending to, how the Vulcan’s demure coldness meshed so well with his natural pugnacious demeanor, and how that calculating voice had managed to talk him to the edge and (occasionally) far past with seemingly no effort. 

Jim found his mouth slowly watering and swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. No, he would respond. And he would let 33 know what had happened. He would ask his questions and demand answers and...and likely apologize. His resolve crumbled like sand between his fingers as he reread the words. How did they manage to sound so removed and unbothered and somehow terribly, unequivocally sad?

His hands were on the projected keyboard before he was fully aware of himself. 

Hey. Sorry, it’s been a rough week for me. 

Jim cringed at how lame the words sounded, but didn’t hesitate in sending the message. The longer he waited, fingers poised and stomach clenching, the worse it was likely to inevitably be. Although. How could I manage to make it worse than “hey.” He shook his head and let his eyes unfocus, staring through the console screen as his mind wandered. 

It dawned on him near literally, slow and creeping in a way that was as harsh as it was welcome, that it was unlikely that 33 would receive his message and have any desire to open it. What if he was angry? Or ignoring him? Would he even bother to check his messages? What if he had done away with the app altogether? Jim blanched at the idea, shuttering his mind to the possibility of a no-win scenario. No, there was no way 33 would have just given up on him, not with all of his adherence to rules and the set up of their “arrangement”.

In and around the words, insecurity writhed and snaked uncomfortably. He nudged at the familiar creeping fear of abandonment, attempting to push it from his mind, but it stubbornly remained. Maybe he did give up on you. Maybe you weren’t worth waiting for. Wouldn’t be the first time. Jim shook his head, but couldn’t manage to dispel the thoughts or conjure a rebutting word. And why would he give up on everything just because you decided to go ghost? Do you really think you were the only one he talked to? 

A deeply confusing anger dropped suddenly into the pit of his belly, its weight nearly physical in its intensity. Something ugly curled in beside it and made Jim’s hand curl into fists. A nasty voice echoed in his mind, venom dripping from each syllable. Jealous. You’re jealous while you sit there, still sore and stretched loose from the night you had. Jesus. Jim Kirk is a lot of things, but I never thought a hypocrite. Jim felt his cheeks heat. Well…

He shook his head, more firmly now, and forced his hands to loosen from their clench to grip the armrests of his chair. He let the padded aluminum bite into his palms and let the calm it brought radiate up his arms. He had done what he could and would make the best of what he received in turn. Spinning gold from bullshit was his wheelhouse. He had fucked this up a fair amount, but he was confident that he’d fucked at least twelve other things up worse. In the past month. Jim allowed himself a soft chuckle at his own expense and rose from the chair, determined to dive face first back into his bed, where he would be warm and safe from his rare but stubborn sulks. Getting a little more common than I’d like, he mused somewhat poutily, feet shuffling across the floor. 

Jim leaned his knee into the soft surface of the mattress and pressed, but instead of falling forward and basking in the comfort of the high piled pillows, he reached up, arms raised over his head, and stretched. He rolled his shoulders, teasing the stress from his muscles until he felt nearly boneless. His fingers were laced, palms flat toward the ceiling when he heard the quiet double chirp of the console’s notification. Jim lowered his hands and turned to face the screen, eyebrows shooting upwards in twin sandy arches of surprise. The surprise bubbled in his chest, tinged with a cloying mixture of excitement, lust, hope, and guilt that made him grimace. He tried to calm himself as he stepped back toward his chair. His palms, now damp with the onslaught of emotion swelling within him, fit to burst, held tight to the back of his chair and eyed the display screen hungrily. His eyes locked immediately onto the avatar of 33, a pulsing green dot just above its digitally rendered head. 

“Open,” Jim heard himself say breathlessly as he pulled the chair out and all but fell back into it. 

The message notification flashed and 33’s words were there. Jim’s eyes drank them in almost immediately. 

3372.7.159.67: One could surmise that your week has been suboptimal by your sudden absence. One could also surmise a number of alternate explanations for such an abrupt avoidance. I find, however, that few come to mind in this instance. 

Jim reread the short message once and then again. “Shit,” he sighed, propping his head up on his palm and only then realizing that he had leaned as far forward as possible in his chair without his chest touching the desk. At a glance the sentences seemed innocuous enough. On the second and third read, though, the implication of the words was obvious. In Vulcan terms, 33 was angry, borderlineenraged. Jim didn’t know a terrible amount about Vulcans, but he knew that they didn’t like to show emotion, and that they were ruled by logic and austerity. 33’s message, however, was teeming with a cold fury that Jim could nearly feel radiating from the screen. He swallowed and managed to type back with stiff fingers. 

JTK3045.6: Look, I’m sorry. There’s been a lot going on and I sorta lost track of things. I have a lot on my mind, you know.

Jim could feel a pout pressing at his lips as he watched his reply rise onto the screen just beneath 33’s. It had been one hell of a week, and he had lost track of the days as they slid by him. He just...omitted the part where he had been avoiding 33 like the plague and hooking up with inebriated aliens. Yeah, he’s bound to go for that. Again, that disconcerting sense of guilt flitted around his mind. Alongside it rose a sudden awareness of the weak attempt at contrition in his reply. The desire to drop his head against the aluminum desktop suddenly spiked in him. He looked up and watched the icon above the avatar’s head indicate that 33 was preparing a response. His reply and the chirping notification came shortly after. 

3372.7.159.67: It should come as no surprise to you that I am less interested in your apologies as I am in your method of recompense. 

Oh. Jim squinted at the message. His eyebrows furrowed with the effort of rereading the words twice. So he’s not mad. The exceedingly optimistic facet of Kirk’s nature surged for a scant moment. He wants to scene. So he can’t be too mad. He still wants me. Maybe he’s just annoyed. Maybe it’s not that bad...In the space where Jim would have normally stored the decency required for him to blanche at how desperate and cloying his stream of thoughts sounded even to his own ears, a sly and sultry voice coiled around the breadth of his excitement. 

Of course he wants you. He wants to punish you, show you what happens when you disobey, when you disappear. Jim immediately conceded to this more logical part of his mind, despite being mildly disconcerted at the racing of his heart and stirring in his groin that accompanied the thought. He wants to break you. Force you to submit. Jim swallowed, his eyes unfocusing somewhat. The words were familiar as well as the part of him slithering over his consciousness. It was the same dark, sultry bit of him that teased him into subspace time and time again; the aspect of his subconscious, teeming just below his polished, cavalier, unflappable facade, that rose in him during each session and stripped him of his lucidity, his pugnacious nature bit by bit until he was a writhing mass of desperate need and blind with the need to serve, to please, to cum. 

He even left it up to you to decide how he hurts you. And he will hurt you. Just like you want. Say yes. Let him punish you. You deserve it, don’t you? You’re an arrogant, willful, disloyal sub. Show him how sorry you really are. If you’re sorry at all. 

The sound of the console softly chirping twice took Jim by surprise. He jerked, blinking rapidly to refocus on the new words that had appeared in identical text above the previous message. 

3372.7.159.67: I will not tolerate being made to wait for you again. Your insolence tests the furthest limits of my patience. Do not forget that you are mine, in will as well as in action, s’cavat. 

Jim licked his lips compulsively. He couldn’t recall a time when had seen or heard 33 speak in such a raw, direct way. As a sub he was defiant and cheeky, often earning himself punishments and discipline, and on more than one occasion he was sure that he had pushed 33 to the precipice of his control. Jim had seen him anger and dealt himself the proof of 33’s ire, but this was something else entirely. It felt dangerous and frightening, and undeniably sexy. Jim shifted in his chair to try and ease the pressure of his growing erection, which had begun to press insistently against the front of his pants. He felt his breath quicken as he raised his hands to the keyboard without a moment’s hesitation, feeling his fingers tremble the slightest bit as he toed closer to the line of subspace. 

JTK3045.6: Ni’droi’ik nar-tor. (1)

He watched his apology automatically translate beside the Vulcan words as he sent the message. Hope rose in his chest to meet the swirling mass of arousal, fear, and other emotions compounding his creeping descent into subspace. Speaking Vulcan tended to placate the other man just enough to buy him time or the slightest bit of favor needed to offset whatever wrong he had committed while scening. He wasn’t sure if the effect would be the same now, but even if it failed, using 33’s native tongue always sent an added chill down his spine, nudged him that much closer to submitting. It reminded him that even his words were not his own, his very language. The thought sent a tingle throughout him, and his fingers were moving across the keyboard again almost immediately. 

JTK3045.6: Nash tor ish-veh. (2)

Jim watched the words appear. He stared at them for a moment, letting the syllables wash over him, realization and arousal meeting to cause a dizzy sort of feeling to settle over his senses. Yours. I’m yours. The words echoed in his mind, redolent with emotion and responsibility, meaning and vulnerability that he wasn’t able to face. Yours. His memory blossomed with the image of him submitting himself to 33’s will, holding his mouth open while he struggled to admit the same words. He wondered dimly how many times he had said those same words, in one form or another, over themonths they’d passed together. He was sure it was too many to count, and the thought had its own pleasing quality. A tiny, quivering part of his mind that had been the logical part of him wondered how many times 33 had acknowledged that he too, in a way, belonged to Jim, as his master, his dominant. It was that same distant part of him that supplied the answer. Never.

The dismissal of this discomfiting notion was but a second too late. Uhura’s words rose into the swirling, lust-soaked ether of his mind, pushing him back step by step from the precipice of subspace. Betrothed...bonded...Jim swallowed, throat suddenly tight. He looked up at the screen and saw that 33’s icon had begun typing. Anxiety doused the lingering remnants of his arousal. His mind was buzzing with overlapping thoughts and feelings, a raucous, discombobulated mess of want and fear and nervous energy, but he knew intuitively that whatever 33 would say next dictated the next step in their conversation, which had suddenly taken on a dire tone that unsettled Jim even further. 

He racked his hectic mind for a way to postpone the inevitable, but again, on some level he knew that it was impossible to distract 33 from seeking what he wanted from Jim, which was likely a scene that he was now emotionally unable to perform, or a performance of dedication and contrition that he couldn’t complete with the nagging fear that 33 was bonded planted so firmly in his mind. Jim watched the icon move again and raised his hands to his own keyboard, fingers tensely poised as he tried to think of what could possibly be said. There was no way to distract, and no way to prevent, so all that was left...Jim shut his eyes, squeezing his lids in frustration, and let his fingertips type out the message. 

JTK3045.6: Earlier you said I could talk to you.  
JTK3045.6: Without being punished or whatever. About whatever I wanted.  
JTK3045.6: Can I still? 

Jim felt his cheeks warm at his inability to type out his request in a single message, but his nerves seemed to be speaking through his very fingers. As he looked over his stilted words, they moved of their own accord. 

JTK3045.6: Please?

His heart was pounding in his chest, his lips tingling with the anxiety that speared him. Jim shifted his weight again in his chair and frustration jabbed at him as he noticed that his erection had not wilted, despite his convoluted onslaught of emotion or the spike in his fear. He felt stupid, childish to be so unsure and anxious, and the sudden whiplash of sensation made him feel disoriented. He had been so close to letting go, forgetting how stricken he’d been when he’d first heard Uhura’s words, releasing himself from his guilt and worry, so ready to gladly accept whatever punishment 33 would inflict on him to put the fear behind him and submit to 33’s will, to his own desire for domination. Jim watched the indicator show that 33 was typing, then disappear, then reappear. It unnerved him, and the worst possible outcomes flashed across his mind, including having to explain his sudden hot and cold demeanor. A moment later, 33’s reply came, nothing near so frightening as he’d imagined. 

3372.7.159.67: I did state that you may bring to my attention any concerns that arise without reprisal. 

Jim wasn’t sure what to make of 33’s reply. It seemed deliberately pedantic, and he worried that his insecurity had transferred across the screen somehow, that 33 would sense his conflict and somehow become angry and dismissive again. He cleared his throat, fingers frozen in their poised position over the projected keys. What could he say? Hey, are you married by chance? And oh yeah I fucked a couple people yesterday. So are we good? In fact, what are we exactly? All of the inane and impossible questions that Jim had filed away over the course of the past week flew unbidden to the forefront of his mind, jostling his common sense for attention and precedence. Just to ease the pressure of their presence, he tried typing out question after question and couldn’t manage to get past the first or second word. 

JTK3045.6: What do you 

He deleted the message and started again.

JTK3045.6: So do

He tried again. 

JTK3045.6: I just

And again. 

JTK3045.6: So about

Jim groaned in frustration and tried once more. 

JTK3045.6: Are you bonded? Have you been bonded this whole time?

He stared at the words, baldly stated and with absolutely none of his usual finesse or humor. They stared at him, somehow invasive and impersonal at the same time. He hated the look of them, the implication, that he was even saying them. His finger hovered over the “delete” key. As terrible as they were, Jim knew that there was no way that he could puzzle out how to make them any more palatable, no cajoling or enticing way for him to say what needed to be said. He felt frustratingly cornered, and his hackles rose as he recognized that this represented the very attitude on no-win scenarios that had put him in such a disastrous mess in the past few weeks. Jim sighed his defeat and sent the message. He watched his questions join the line of green text filling the screen and was mildly comforted only by the sensation of his erection flagging, making his pants slightly more comfortable over his lap. 

His eyes trained on the avatar of 33 on the right side of the screen. Its tiny pointed ears, starkly cut bangs, and pristine black clothing remained unfazed by Jim’s query. It stood in its usual posture, stiff and uninviting. Nearly a full minute passed and still no icon appeared above its tiny head indicating that 33 was typing or preparing a response of any kind. Jim could feel his eyebrows furrowing in confusion and frustration. Despite feeling suddenly disconcerted, a sense of finality crept over and between Jim’s concerns. It was far from anything resembling relief, but Jim suddenly felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Regardless of the answer and its possible implications, Jim had managed to ask and 33 would either answer or simply do nothing and leave Jim to his own devices. As much as he hoped for the former, knowing that he had done what he could seemed to gird Jim’s stomach against the queasy anxiety that had settled there, at least for the time being. 

It was that mild comfort that settled the stark contrast between Jim’s hope and dread in the minutes that passed. Several came and went, in the duration of which the icon indicating that 33 was typing rose and disappeared only once. Kirk found himself squinting at the screen as if the absence of a response could somehow have been a failing of his focus. As he gazed, unsettled, the typing icon jumped back into life for a split second before a succinct reply appeared on the screen. 

3372.7.159.67: I am not currently bonded. 

Jim blinked. That’s it? He was sorely tempted to look behind his display screen for the rest of the words that should have followed. He flopped back in his chair, incredulous. 

“That’s it?” The words were out before he could stop them. They rose bright green onto the screen, poised to send at his command and he groaned in annoyance. 

Jim raised his hands to the keyboard, fingers bent, hesitating shortly before replying. 

JTK3045.6: Currently? As in at the moment?

He watched the words rise, eyes narrowed. They looked similarly sparse following 33’s blithe reply. The jittery, neurotic part of him that (nearly completely) ran his response center made his fingers skitter over the keys once again. 

JTK3045.6: Does that mean you were? As a kid? I’ve heard about Vulcan bonding and it didn’t exactly sound like your culture allows much leeway for divorce.

A tight muscle was jumping in his jaw now. Jim forced it to relax, taken slightly aback at the agitated feeling flowing through him. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, pulling them tight against bare pectorals. The brush of his arms against his nipples, still sore from the night’s activities, made the hair on his forearm stand on end. The tightness in his jaw returned as the sensation melded with his rising frustration. 33’s response came much more quickly than the last and only fed his annoyance. 

3372.7.159.67: I fail to see how that concerns you. Perhaps in your studies you also learned that my culture upholds strict tenets of privacy. 

Jim scoffed at the words, surprised at the humor that rose lightly in his chest alongside the glaring aggrivation. He scanned the message once more and lingered on the second sentence. He could nearly hear the quotation marks around “my culture” that 33 was undoubtedly too composed to type literally, but managed just fine to convey across text. Jim rolled his eyes as he dropped his arms and reached for the keyboard, hands girded by mounting annoyance. 

JTK3045.6: Do Vulcans also uphold strict tenets of hypocrisy?

The reply came in seconds this time. 

3372.7.159.67: I am unsure what you are attempting to imply. 

Jim rolled his eyes with a snort this time. Unsure my ass. He pulled his chair closer to the console desk and typed rapidly back. 

JTK3045.6: I’m just saying, it’s a bit laughable to get lectured about privacy by someone who asks for pictures of me fucking myself for his pleasure on a nightly basis. 

A smirk worked its way between Jim’s lips. He wished he could see the look on the Vulcan’s face as he read the message. The response notification appeared very briefly before the response itself popped into existence on the screen. 

3372.7.159.67: It is similarly curious to have my character questioned by one who willingly agreed to provide proof of those same acts of depravity. 

Kirk felt his jaw drop, a soft gasp stealing the curve his lips. The sound, quiet though it was, was redolent with as much shock as it was hurt. It surprised him further, the deep and sudden sense of betrayal that pierced him at the belly. Anger tore at the wound in his ego, the stitch in his affection that had grown for 33 over the past months. He had known that the conversation had no chance of being pleasant, but he’d imagined it would remain civil. 

He couldn’t fathom the number of times that 33 had insulted or degraded him. He couldn’t possibly put a number to the amount of times that 33 had brought him to his knees both literally and figuratively with his words alone. Those times had been some of the most pleasurable of their tenure. Those times had also been meaningful, intentional, consensual. In all the nights they’d spent in their delicious push and pull of demand and performance, 33 had never done anything to genuinely disrespect Jim’s responses, Jim’s submission, Jim. This...this was something else. Something ugly and cruel and unwelcome in and out of scene. He suddenly felt like he was gasping, but it was only the quick-slow pounding of his pulse rising. 

Jim’s fingers tapped frantically across the holographic keys. The force of his fingertips phasing through each letter caused the desk to sway at a hectic staccato. 

JTK3045.6: You know, you’re right. What right do I even have to ask. I’m sure whoever you are or were or are about to be bonded to doesn’t give a shit that you kept a virtual sub for six months. 

He could feel his cheeks warm and tighten with a spreading sting like he’d been slapped. Jim hated the formless emotion writhing in his gut. He felt no shame in his submission or his wanton and insatiable nature. The journey he had taken to come to grips with not only his comfort but his pride in his identity as a sub was a place of strength in his mind, and now it pulsed and seethed at 33’s slight. How could he say such a thing to him? How dare he? 

JTK3045.6: I shouldn’t have asked. I shouldn’t even have come back. It’s not like you care about whether I’m here or not. You don’t know anything about me. And if you did, you’d only care about how I can get you off. All you care about is yourself. Yourself and your stupid arrangement. If you can care about anything at all. 

Jim knew that the slight against 33’s heritage was unkind and somewhat unwarranted, but he felt no less vindicated in having said it. He knew that he was working himself up and could do little to stop it. He could feel the rage and confusion, the guilt and shame and envy of the past week leaking from inside him, oozing from from his pores. He had failed himself, his potential, failed Pike, failed even the oppressive memory of his father, and now, as he failed to control his anger and hurt, he felt the sting of having failed 33 as well. 

When had it happened, the unforgivable mistake, the gross miscalculation that allowed the Vulcan to view Jim so poorly that he felt justified in shaming and ridiculing him? Clearly there had been some misstep, some previous wrongdoing that had caused this disdain to simmer, unchecked for some time now; their conversation had only been the match to the long, trailing wick of his failures. That same slick and serpentine voice that had given daily voice to Jim’s insecurities the previous week whispered now, curling around his fears. Last night. While you let yourself get fucked by two aliens without thinking about the third. 

Jim couldn’t stand the shame that the words caused to blossom in his chest. It only exacerbated his turmoil, caused his hurt to bubble and seethe against it. He felt justified and terrified and vindictive. It was more than he knew how to process, his indignant rage against his raging shame. His eyes prickled uncomfortably. The sensation sent his hands into another angry spasm against the keyboard. 

JTK3045.6: You can take your fucking arrangement and shove it up your ass. And once you manage to pull it out use it on some other poor bastard who won’t ask you any damn questions. 

Jim watched with hot, hollow anger as his words joined the others on the screen. They seemed pointless, impotent in the wake of what he was feeling. The glowing green text did nothing to demonstrate his hurt, his desire for reprisal. The thought resonated with him, driving home his own infuriating helplessness and bringing to mind 33’s earlier words. He scowled at the screen. 

JTK3045.6: no reprisal my ass. I thought Vulcans couldn’t lie. 

He smiled sadly, his fingers bending, hesitating for just a moment before tapping against the desk again, their rhythm less frantic, more hesitant, but just as intentional. 

JTK3045.6: But I guess we both know you shouldn’t trust what you see online. 

Jim pushed himself back from the desk with a shove. He sat for a moment, feet cool against the smooth material of the floor, arms crossed, one knee bouncing impatiently. His mind was buzzing with conflicting thoughts and feelings, now angry, now embarrassed, now sorrowful. Jim thought for one wild moment to message 33 again, unsure whether to apologize, demand an apology, or just continue to rail against the Vulcan for his disrespect. He shook his head. None of it would matter. The surety that accompanied the thought was swift and discomfiting. Jim felt suddenly desperately tired. 

He stood from his chair and walked the few steps it was to his bed. He fell face first into the mattress for the second time that day. Jim laid still, reveling in the warm, dark solitude for a while before lifting his face from the comforter to crawl up the bed. The pillow was cool against his face, still uncomfortably flushed as it was. 

“Computer, lights, 10%.” Jim spoke to his environmental controls through the thin barrier of his light comforter, which he had pulled nearly completely up over his head. 

Jim shut his eyes, willing his mind to fill with the quiet darkness that gradually engulfed him. He sighed, bringing his arms upward to bend beneath the soft pile of pillows and burying his face in its warmth. His heart was still thrumming tightly. Ugly thoughts cane unbidden to him, nipping at the edges of his mind as he tried to slide into the sweet oblivion of sleep. Jim took a deep, slow breath and drew the comforter down just slightly to blow it out through his nose. 

There was no reason to torture himself. He couldn’t fix this, couldn’t fix himself. Tomorrow, confidence shattered and burdened with renewed self-loathing, he’d have to try and convince yet another Vulcan to give him a chance he didn’t deserve to accomplish something else he would likely inevitably ruin. A tiny spark of his usual self flickered weakly in his mind. That’s the spirit, champ. One outta two ain’t bad, as Bones would say. 

The thought of which of the two he wanted to please more made him feel slightly nauseous. Rather than face the feeling, or allow it to encourage him to spiral deeper into his current depressive state, Jim pulled the covers tighter around him and turned onto his side. He opened his eyes for a moment in the dim light and made out the shape of the computer console. He squeezed them shut and rolled onto his opposite side with a sigh. 

“Computer,” he said in a soft voice.”If anyone calls, I’m out to lunch.”

The console dinged to acknowledge his command. “All hails and notifications will be held until otherwise specified,” the deep electronic voice replied tonelessly . 

Jim sniffed and snuggled into his pillows. “Thanks,” he whispered, and dropped into a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Of what I understand, this is a very sincere apology that is used to show deference and respect. In this context, it’s essentially “Forgive me, Daddy, for I have sinned.”
> 
> (2) So Vulcan syntax is kinda weird and trying to sexily convey the “I am yours” concept is super hard. So this is literally “This is yours” which has a pretty kinky variable to it that I really liked. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. (6) New Messages

Jim walked slowly out of the shower, footsteps ginger against the cold floor, thick clouds of steam billowing out of the small bathroom in his wake. The buzzing pinprick sensation of his skin pebbling with goosebumps from the cool air clashed with the quiver in his knees, the clench of his abdomen and parts beyond. He towelled his hair aggressively, frustrated by his lot on life, the sensitivity of his half-sated body, and the jet dryer that never seemed to get his hair all the way dry. The towel made a soft noise as it hit his bed, tossed casually aside as Jim walked into his bedroom and made a beeline to his closet to peruse his limited collection of clean clothes. Each step reminded him with a dull pulse at the base of his spine just why his usual 45 minute shower had stretched into nearly two unsatisfying hours. 

He grumbled to himself as he stared unseeingly at the shirts and pants on the hanging rack. He refused to name the irritable, frustrated sensation in his chest, the sharp downward slant of his lips and pinched crease between his brows, and his refusal married poorly with his agitation. James Kirk did not pout. The very idea was absurd, insulting even. But, given the severity of the situation, he was begrudgingly willing to label the dense, indignant sensation as, if anything, an uncharacteristic bout of light sulking. The unpleasant feeling weighing heavily on his postponed post-masturbatory euphoria sat leaden in his gut and clenched his hands to fists. 

He had awoken cranky and poorly rested. His head felt foggy and heavy, his eyes bleary and inexplicably sore. There was a pain along one side of his jaw, and he knew he’d been grinding his teeth as he slept. Jim had risen with a whiny sound that he would have denied to anyone who had attributed it to him and sat on his bed, head in hands for a long moment. The unwelcome pressure behind his eyes mounted the pressure lingering in his chest that settled itself neatly in place as the events of the previous night came sprinting back to mind almost immediately. 

Jim’s mood curdled further. His rage and indignation had been starved out by the restless night, lessened into an opaque disappointment and an alarming, stinging hurt that he was sure should concern him but that he couldn’t quite face. Jim let out a sigh that was as much groan as it was breath and let himself plop onto his bed, eyes still staring glazedly at the closet. 

33’s words rang in his ears, sharp and sudden, a warning bell to signal his heart to pound and cheeks to flush. Jim tried to shake the words from his mind, but couldn’t keep his fingers from gripping fistfuls of bedsheets or his ears from heating uncomfortably. The words hurt and embarrassed him, the slight against his hard-won pride enraged him, but beneath his indignation, lodged stubbornly between his anger and bitterness was an unwelcome and a jarring shock. 

Of the myriad emotions that swarmed swarmedhim at the thought of the Vulcan, Jim loathed that it was the shock of it all that made him feel the most...illogical. He longed to rationalize the uneasiness of the feeling by blaming the suddenness of 33’s insult, it’s blatant nature or hurtful intent, but the longer he tried, the less able Jim was to convince himself. He felt the hurt of shock because he hadn’t expected 33 to treat him that way. He’d been confident, no, he’d been sure...Jim shook his head. What? What was I so sure of? What did I know? 

Jim leaned back on his hands. What did he really even now about 33? He thought back to the dawning days of their relationship. They had been sparse yet pleasant, a fast connection forming between them that seemed to bely a natural compatibility that made for easy conversation and a seamless transition into inevitable flirtation and things well beyond. 

The two of them had both disclosed their relative positions within Starfleet, 33 a technician of sorts and Jim a cadet. Jim had told him about growing up on Earth, the happier points about Sam, about his tumultuous history with the police and his rambunctious nature. He was chronically prone to oversharing, and that fact came embarrassingly to mind in the moment as he recalled their innumerable, if somewhat one sided, conversations. 

He reflected on having shared much with 33 and being understanding of the fact that the Vulcan had shared comparatively little in return. He remembered telling the half truth that he hadn’t known his father, that he had passed away before Jim was born. After all, it wasn’t technically a lie. That day, Jim could recall that 33 had spoken of his family for the first and only time. 33 had admitted that he was distant from his own father, who was stern and strictly upheld the tenets of his Vulcan upbringing, and who worked as a dignitary. His father had been often absent during his childhood, conducting diplomatic missions of behalf of Starfleet, and he’d been grateful to be left in the care of his mother, a human woman who was a schoolteacher. 

Jim remembered that 33 had become rather tight-lipped after that day. He remembered having made light of the tense revelation of 33’s mixed heritage, hoping to loosen the man’s tongue after a stifling hour of one and two word responses to his attempts at light conversation. It had worked, and 33 had mentioned only once thereafter, somewhat haltingly, that he rarely disclosed his parentage, as it was a source of shame and ridicule on his home planet. 

Jim recalled the shock he’d felt learning that someone so bright and engaging from such an advanced culture felt shame over something as trivial as their genetic makeup. They had been on a voice call, and Jim remembered the sound of his own startled laughter. 

“But it’s not like your the only one or anything, right?” The question had left the room silent for a series of tense moments. Even now, Jim could recall having heard the sounds of shifting and 33 clearing his throat. He’d been mortified to hear the answer. 

“As a matter of record, I am the first, and to public knowledge, the last of my kind.”

Having grown up in rural Iowa, Jim didn’t have to speculate at what xenophobia or prejudice looked like, but his tender heart had clenched at the mental image of a young half-Vulcan child, alone and abused, haunting the barren desert planet. He remembered the righteous indignation that had flown through him. In Jim’s opinion, anyone capable of mistreating a child for any reason, much less such a close-minded and antiquated fallacy as dislike of interspecies love was a fucking idiot, no matter what fancy school they went to or how “logical” they thought themselves. He had shared this opinion with 33, verbatim, and had received an order to strip in near immediate response. He’d been rewarded with three orgasms that night. 

The memory sent a shiver up his spine that radiated across the tense muscles of his shoulders. He felt his hackles rise at the feeling of it, and was suddenly and strangely aware of the room at his back, as if it had a presence of its own being made known. Jim closed his eyes in frustration. On some level, he recognized the abrupt pressure had a direct cause, and on another, he was more than hesitant to admit--even only to himself--that the longer he mulled over 33 the more aware he would be of his console looming in the corner of his room. Just in the moment it took for Jim to acknowledge the bizarre feeling of being watched by an inanimate object he felt it beckoning him, the pressure to know if 33 had bothered to respond, what he might have said. Would he have apologized? What would that even look like? Do Vulcans apologize? And just what would Jim have done with an apology? Would he accept? Where would they go from there? And would 33 have explained? What if he was bonded? Was he prepared to face that possibility? And how, if so? 

Each question echoed in his mind, a maddeningly steady stream of insecurity rippling over his thoughts. Jim rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and let out an explosive breath he hadn’t realized had filled his chest. The irrational, prickling sensation at his back of being watched arose again and was met with a nearly overwhelming sense of resignation. I do not have time for this. As the words rose and fled at equal pace, Jim realized he was completely right. He had spent the past few days in a haze of ennui and lamenting distraction that he could no longer afford. His “plan,” if it could even stand to be called such, was tenuous at best and postponing it for more self-flagellation was a luxury that he could no longer justify awarding himself. 

Jim nodded decisively and stood, turning to face his console. The sight of it caused a knot of discomfiting emotions to roil in his stomach. He jerked his head in annoyance and ignored them, plowing forward with a stubbornness that was vaguely bracing. 

“Computer, disable notification silencing,” Jim murmured, his voice just loud enough to be heard as he advanced to his desk chair and sat down heavily. 

The console released several small chirps in rapid succession and the demurely programmed voice of his computer program informed him that he had four unread messages from Offworldr and an automated hail from Starfleet Academy. Jim’s spine attempted to straighten painfully in anxious anticipation, but he leaned forward onto his desk to keep his body from betraying the forced sense of calm that he was attempting to draw taut around his growing discomfort. He let his forearms rest momentarily on the cool, aluminum surface before quickly forcing his fingers to open the application and hover over the bright red dot with the number 4 in its center, hovering innocently beside 33’s name and all too familiar avatar. 

A miniscule sound of relief left Jim as he noticed that the text message icon was beside the number. He didn’t think he could handle hearing the sound of 33’s voice quite yet without winding himself up further. Determined, he raised his hand and in jerky, halting motions tapped the red dot to open 33’s messages. The blocks of black text rose before his eyes in neat rows, as always, but his eyes stared unseeingly at them for several moments. He couldn’t make out the words immediately, seeing instead so many pinpricks of type across the bland and familiar background of the application. 

Jim closed his eyes for a moment, seeing a haze of the night’s memories flash across his eyelids, and let out another less than steadying sigh. Mustering the willpower he knew he had in abundance (despite how he was feeling) he blinked his eyes open and began to read. 

3372.7.159.67: It is apparent that you are angry with me. 

Even in his conflicted emotional state, Jim couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes at the opening line of the first message. 

3372.7.159.67: Anger is a logical response to inflammatory statements as well as to the confusion that you seem to feel in regard to my state of betrothal. I cannot claim to understand your reaction, however, I concede that I spoke out of turn and it is more than apparent that my doing so has caused you emotional harm. I was wrong to do so in response to your questioning, moreso after having assured you that you were free to do so without reprisal. My reaction was a breach of both our arrangement and your trust. For both, I offer my apologies.

Jim felt his mouth fall open. He hadn’t known what he was expecting, but a full apology from his reserved, unemotional Vulcan dom was far from the top of the list. He felt his resolve to continue waver dangerously as remorse began to chip away at his determination. A quiet streak of vindication bolstered his flagging confidence, if only slightly, and Jim was able to force his eyes to continue scanning the screen. 

3372.7.159.67: As I have said, my people are unaccustomed to revealing private information without just cause. I do now believe, however, that insight into this matter may alleviate some of your concern. It is my hope that further knowledge on the subject will resolve this disagreement without my having to resort to inserting the terms of our agreement into my rectum. 

A soft laugh escaped from Jim’s lips as he read the stilted, very Vulcan attempt at placating humor. Soft warmth slid across his chest in a way that would have been comforting at any other time than now. It felt like the touch of fevered skin to the back of the hand, grasping a cup full of a liquid that hadn’t cooled, a mid-July day in San Francisco without a lick of breeze. He cleared his throat and continued. 

3372.7.159.67: To answer your question in short, I was betrothed at the age of 7, as are all Vulcan children. It became apparent once my intended and I reached maturity that our bond was incompatible. It was summarily dissolved. 

Relief washed over Jim in a wave that was nearly palpable. He felt the tight, painful knot in his stomach unravel almost completely, and a deep sigh leave him in a rapid burst of air. He hadn’t realized how good it could feel to be wrong. A giddy joy spread, feverish, from his gut to his chest in a jittery, crawling rush. He’d been wrong. 33 wasn’t bonded. They could be together, it would be fine, he’d been wrong in assuming, he’d been wrong about everything...including in how he’d suspected 33 of lying, how he’d spoken to him, how he’d let it embolden him to ignore 33 completely, to go home with Gaila. 

As quickly as relief had come, regret broke over Jim’s head, shame and frustration lapping at his twisting guts immediately after. His cheeks flushed at the memory of the fabricated righteousness of the previous night’s anger. He felt sick. Jim sat up, gripping the smooth edge of the desk tightly, elbows bent and poised to push him away from the console and...go where? To the bed, to wallow further in self-hatred? To the shower, to manipulate his body into more hours of inevitable frustration? To the café to watch and pine over the red sea of cadets, procrastinating the recovery of his own destiny? Miserable as it was, Jim knew that the only way to stop himself from falling back into the lamentably familiar pattern he’d indulged in for the past few days was to keep going. He would finish reading 33’s messages and, no matter what emotional disaster it wrought in him, get up, leave for campus, and resolve to face the issue after he had sorted out what he could do about his probation. Tenuously grasping at his wavering willpower, Jim read on. 

3372.7.159.67: Regardless, I am confident that this will not completely satisfy your curiosity. I have come to realize that you are one who requires rationale for all outcomes in order to accept them; an admirable trait, though often tiresome. 

Jim felt his face heat as the praise caused another pleasing and equally distressing flush of intermingled joy and embarrassment. 

3372.7.159.67: As you know, I am of mixed species parentage, and, as I have told you, this fact is well-known and reviled on Vulcan. It was the hope of my father as well as my intended bondmate’s that the merging of our families would somehow overcome what was often looked upon as a flaw in my design. My house is one of renown on Vulcan, a proud lineage that it was believed could survive being besmirched by my human blood. It was because of my background that I decided not to pursue an education at the Vulcan Science Academy, despite earning a place there; a choice that was, at the time, unheard of. My choice quite expectedly caused my family no small amount of disdain, and as a result, my potential bondmate requested that our bond be dissolved before being brought to fruition. The dissolution ceremony took place before I came to Earth, approximately 6.21 years ago.

 

Jim’s eyes flashed to the last message, too rapt in the rare, hard-fought details of 33’s life before him to acknowledge his emotions. 

3372.7.159.67: You may do with this information as will, as it is a source of public record on my home planet. I hope it is sufficient to convince you that I was no long betrothed when we initially began our arrangement, and assuage your suspicions and frustrations.

While I admit that I was wrong to speak to you in the manner in which I have, I must note that you are incorrect in several of your assumptions from last night. First, this agreement is not one of my sole enjoyment. It has always been my aim that you find equal, if not greater pleasure in our sessions than myself. Second, while it is a common misconception that Vulcans are incapable of lying, I assure you that I had no intention of deceiving you when I invited you to question me without reprisal. It was a failing in my control, and for that you have my apologies. 

Last, in response to your implying that I cannot feel, I will remind you that I am, by nature, half human. As such, I can assure you that, despite my Vulcan upbring, I do in fact feel.

Jim scanned the page, near frantic. His eyes roamed everywhere, his fingers reaching up to scroll the message screen farther up in hope of revealing more. But there was nothing. He scrolled down and let himself reread the messages as if somehow new information would materialize as he read. He gobbled the words from the screen, hungry for more explanation, starved for closure. After the second read, the words hadn’t changed, and the gnawing feeling in his gut called out for something, anything to help him make sense of everything that he’d learned about the mysterious man across the screen. Jim glanced at the timestamp on the last message. 1738. 

Several moments and some hasty calculations later, Jim came to the realization that 33 had replied to his summarily having been told to fuck all the way off over an hour after Jim had sent it. Something about that fact seemed overtly relevant to the situation, but, unsure of exactly how, Jim filed it away as he glanced at the chronometer that shone on the silver surface of his desk. 0941. 

“Shit.” 

Nearly 16 hours had passed since 33 had become possibly the first Vulcan in history to openly discuss not only his personal past but also his capacity for emotion simultaneously. And in response to Jim’s angry no less. Jim glared at the chronometer. A voice in the back of his mind, disparate from the cacophony of clashing emotions, reminded him sharply that tutoring session began at 1000 on weekdays. Jim groaned, and lifted a hand from where it had been poised, somewhat subconsciously, over the keyboard and brought it to his mouth to worry the flesh around his thumbnail. 

His confidence in not only himself but his slapdash plan was in tatters that littered the buzzing and hectic space that was his overwhelmed and disoriented mind. He felt shaky, unstable and unable to trust himself, his instincts. Look where they’d gotten him so far. Jim worked his teeth over his thumbnail. His eyes flashed back to the chronometer. 0943. Even if he hauled a dangerous amount of ass, he wasn’t confident that he could still be first in line for tutoring with Spock. He cringed. I was supposed to check the schedule and reserve a spot. He chided himself internally for his own stupidity and let out a sharp breath through his nose. 

The only choice now was to race to campus and do his best to finesse his way past whoever had reserved the spot, then get in to see Spock and...charm him into giving me back my only shot at amounting at anything. Easy. Piece of cake. Jim groaned and ran his hand over his chin. Another voice in his mind whispered silkily that his bed was just paces away, warm and inviting, that he could always try another day, another way, that today just wasn’t his day. The pulsing tangle of emotions in Jim’s stomach seemed to throb in agreeance. 

His feet were on the ground before he could register having stood up, carrying him to the other side of the small bedroom. Jim stared at his bed, the disheveled green comforter, the well-worn pillows. It beckoned to him, the soft, dank oblivion of synthetic down and familiar cotton. The overwhelming sense of dread and guilt and shame that had loomed over him for the past several days seemed to push him toward it, toward giving up, toward accepting things as they   
were for once, finally allowing himself to relax and let things unfold as they were meant to unfold, letting go of all of the weight and the pressure of his name, his past, his future. Jim looked, and saw the vague outline of his body in the bedclothes, stagnant, unmoving, a shallow impression of himself. 

The punctuated lines of the numbers on the chronometer flipped silently just as the door to Jim’s apartment slammed shut. 0955. 

-xXx-

Jim arrived, somewhat breathless, at the student activities annex that branched like a sparkling glass and chrome limb from the xenoanthropology complex. The complex was a sprawling wing of the campus, one of the newest, that housed several libraries and a number of class and lecture rooms that were designated for any and all courses that covered alien culture, language, diplomacy, history, or warfare. The annex was L-shaped structure studded with study rooms and presentation spaces, all with programmable seclusion technology that allowed a student or group of students to control the lights, temperature, the opacity of the windows, and even the soundproofing level of the space they had reserved. Jim was grateful for all of these developments as he all but skidded to a halt in front of the hologram bulletin board inside the main entrance to the annex, making little effort to quiet his gasping breaths.   
He scanned the announcements and video flyers advertising lost pets, part-time work, and well-compensated clinical trials with rapid jerks of his head until he found what he was looking for. In the top right corner, clustered with the numerous other flyers for Klingon, Andorian, Spanish, and Russian, was the tutoring schedule for Vulcan. Jim tapped it quickly and waited for it to enlarge, then hastily read off the times and names typed neatly beside them. He let out a breathy sound of gratitude as he saw Spock’s name listed as the tutor on duty at the top of the page. It was quickly followed by a groan of dismay as he noticed that there were already names beside each of the 45 minute periods. 

The first, he noticed a second later, was listed as starting at 10:30. I was off by a half hour. Jim mused, lifting his wrist to look at the chronometer on his wearable communicator. It’s 10:15. Maybe if I get there first, I can try and convince him to see me. Jim nodded quickly and let his feet carry him in the direction of the study room that had been indicated on the flyer, abuzz with a bizarre kind of excitement that any passerby would hastily identify as a mild hysteria. 

Moments later, Jim jogged up to the door of the study room and felt his stomach drop. It was closed, the lights dark and the space seemingly empty. He walked closer to the door and put a cupped hand to the window, peering into the still darkness inside. Jim sighed and lowered his hand from the plexiglass, pausing to gnaw absentmindedly at his jagged thumbnail. 

“Damn it,” he murmured to himself. His mind began working overtime, slotting plot after plot into the vast and growing holes in his plan. Maybe I can...no, that won’t work. Hm, but if I could...maybe, but...I don’t think, shit. I don’t know. He was so lost in his buzzing thoughts that the sound of a voice sounding suddenly behind him made him jump. 

“May I help you?” 

Jim whirled around, eyes locking onto the man standing several paces away.

“No, yes, I, uh,” 

He trailed off, lips parted as the finer (Much finer, Jim thought) details of the man steadied in his line of sight. Even with his flawless posture, it was difficult to discern his height beyond it being clear that he was several inches taller than Jim. His broad shoulders tapered to a very trim waist, obscured as it was by his gray Starfleet uniform, and long, sleek legs that gave an effortless elegance to the black slacks he wore. 

Jim glanced up in an attempt to make his obvious sweeping onceover of the man’s form seem at least slightly less unrepentant, but found himself almost immediately captivated by the man’s face. It was a good face, he decided in the moment as he drunk in each minute detail. A pretty good face. His skin was flawless, unmarred by a single scar, blemish, or inch of stubble. There was a very mild greenish tint across his arching cheekbones and at the tip of his long, straight nose that Jim found oddly adorable. His lips--where Jim’s eyes lingered for a yawning moment--would have looked pouty in any other countenance, full and bowed tantalizingly above a devastatingly chiseled jaw. Once he was able to draw his eyes from them, Jim halted again at the chocolate colored eyes, deep-set in a ponderous brow knit lightly in the center by two dark and well-manicured eyebrows, upswept in the Vulcan fashion. Oh. Jim thought to himself as the thought fully registered. This has to be him. 

“Spock.” Jim didn’t realize the name had left his lips until he saw the Vulcan’s brow furrow further. If it didn’t seem physically impossible, Jim would have sworn that the man’s back got even straighter, his posture stiffer still. 

“I am Spock,” he said, his voice toneless despite the severity of his gaze. “Are you in need of assistance?” 

Heat licked at Jim’s cheeks. Earth to Kirk. Get it together. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair before extending it towards Spock. The corners of his mouth pulled at his over-warm cheeks as his trademark Kirk grin lit up his face. 

“Yeah, hi. I’m Jim. Jim Kirk.” 

Spock’s dark, pensive eyes flickered downward to Jim’s outstretched hand. He considered the gesture for a moment, his eyes travelling over the appendage as if there were more to be learned from it upon further inspection. After several moments’ examination, Spock raised his eyes to Jim’s, his expression unchanged. 

It was another moments’ awkward wait before Jim realized that Spock had no intention of shaking his hand and retracted it; several more before he realized that the other man was waiting for him to speak. He cleared his throat again and inwardly swore at the nervous dryness of his mouth and the growing warmness of his cheeks. 

“I uh, need tutoring. Vulcan tutoring.” 

Spock held his gaze unwaveringly for several seconds before stepping forward. Jim felt himself jerk slightly back as the Vulcan moved abruptly in his direction. He found himself moving unconsciously aside as Spock brushed past him toward the study room. Spock pressed his hand to the small screen just beside the door. A second later, the black screen flashed green and was replaced with a number keypad. 

“There is a roster in the annex entrance. You may utilize it if you would like to make an appointment.” Spock’s voice was placid as he tapped a code into the screen. When the door opened and the lights came on seconds later, he stepped into the room without hesitation. 

Jim blinked, taken aback by the abrupt dismissal. Alright maybe Bones and Uhura had a point about this guy. He could feel his brow furrowing with annoyance and shook his head to dismiss the sensation. Jim walked hurriedly into the room behind Spock, stopping several paces from the large, aluminum table where Spock was setting his PADD. 

“Yeah, funny story. I actually checked, and all of the slots are already full for today.” 

Spock shrugged off his shoulder bag into a chair at the table and walked directly to the holoboard at its head and began to go about turning it on and bringing up language programs that Jim recognized from his studied. 

“There are tutoring sessions offered throughout the week as well. You may select from any of those that accommodate your schedule,” there was a nearly indiscernible pause. “However full it may be.” 

Jim refused the immediate impulse to swear. Of course. Spock had to know who he was. Even if he wasn’t the systems specialist assigned to the Kobayashi Maru, word of Jim’s attempt at the test and resulting probation had long since spread across campus. Jim tried to quash his annoyance at the subtle dig at his probation before it showed on his face. There was still a chance that Spock hadn’t seen all the way through him, however small. And he had to try. Pouring every inch of Kirk charm he could muster into his voice, Jim took a step closer to the table and rested his fingertips on the cool metal surface. 

“True,” Jim said lightly, as if unfazed by Spock’s obvious barb. “But I think I’d benefit most learning from someone with more...hands-on experience with the language.”

Spock’s hand halted for a fleeting moment from its ministrations across the holoboard’s screen before continuing its tapping, dragging and typing. Jim tried not to notice how long and regal his fingers were, how they moved with an intentional dexterity that seemed almost severe. 

“The Academy employs a number of competent tutors,” Spock said shortly. “Who are collectively absent from the roster today. It for this purpose alone that I am temporarily providing tutoring sessions in their stead.” Despite his voice being completely without intonation, Jim couldn’t help but think he sounded somewhat annoyed. 

Jim could feel his back teeth grind together in the effort to keep the smile on his face. No shit. That’s why it has to be today, you stubborn-- He took a deep breath through his nose and continued to grin at Spock’s back. 

“But surely you understand, I just want to give myself the best chance at learning. And I can’t think of anyone more capable of giving me that than you.” 

A groan nearly slipped from Jim’s throat on the heels of his words. He hadn’t meant for them to come out so pointed, and the implication was nearly transparent, but in his defense, Spock had started it.   
The Vulcan lowered his hands from the holobard and folded them at the small of his back. For a short while he stood, back to Jim, surveying his work, before he turned and walked back to his place at the table beside his PADD and shoulder bag. He glanced over Jim’s hands on the table as his eyes rose to meet Jim’s with a look that made the other man’s stomach clench. 

“While it is commendable that you have taken it upon yourself to further your education, I believe you will find that it is seldom the most productive means of doing so.” 

Jim clenched his jaw to stifle his rebuttal, his fingers dragging backward across the table to curl into fists at his sides. His heart was beginning to thud in his ears, the din of rushing blood almost blocking out Spock’s next words. 

“There is a student due to arrive in 3.25 minutes. It would be best for you to leave.” 

There was an iron resolve to the Vulcan’s words that belied the cool absence of emotion in his voice. It was a voice that left no room for defiance and Jim found--infuriatingly--that something about the sound bound the willfulness in him, tying his tongue and denying him the searing retorts that were mounting in his throat. He hated the smug satisfaction that played discreetly in the lines of Spock’s face, the effortless surety in his tone, and most of all, he hated that something about Spock’s entire demeanor was so frustratingly, unequivocally hot. It was infuriating. 

An undercurrent of fear bumped along under his skin, just beneath the surface of his mounting anger. As angry as he was, there was no denying that his plan was failing. Spock couldn’t be swayed or needled into helping him and the longer Jim stood there, the more evident it became that planning to do so had been a mistake. Spock was a creature of logic and finality, the complete antithesis of Jim. He should have known that his usual methods of convincing and seducing and enticing wouldn’t have worked. 

Idiot. The cold, sneering voice that had been infiltrating his mind for the previous few days chided at him. You thought you could outwit a Vulcan? You couldn’t even beat his test. A cold draught of shame spilled down Jim’s spine. His stomach churned with shame and the sense of doom that accompanied another obvious failure. The sick feeling he’d narrowly escaped that morning rose up in his throat like bile. 

Jim felt his nails cutting into the meat of his palm. The sharp sting distracted his mind from the swirling abyss of anger and sadness welling in him, awarding him a measure of focus. He looked away from Spock’s piercing gaze and gathered his dwindling perseverance as fiercely as he had that morning. 

He could feel his face heat and his stomach clench with the familiar hybrid of fear and thrill that always captivated him and helped him slide toward submission. Trust your instincts, Jim reassured himself silently. Just imagine he’s 33. Same haircut, same speech pattern even. How do you get him to give you what you want? Jim swallowed to coat his throat and looked down, eyelashes fluttering as he turned his head away from Spock. 

“Sanu,” he said softly, and nearly halted when his own voice touched his ears, redolent with longing and genuine need. His cheeks burned. Whoops. Force of habit. “Bolaya ish-veh gol'nev nash-veh.” (1)

There was a pregnant silence, the air stiff as an autumn fog. Jim felt his heart hammer in his chest, counting several rapid beats before fluttering his eyes upward, and paused at what he saw. 

Spock, who had remained stalwart and impenetrable since Jim had laid eyes on him in the hallway was staring intently at him. His dark, deep-set eyes were wide, and the sharp features of his face were frozen in place, not in a mask of neutrality but as if in genuine shock. Jim felt the sudden uncomfortable sensation that Spock was staring into him somehow. he felt he hair rise on his arms as their eyes locked, an unnameable emotion rushing into him that drowned his anxiety immediately. 

“You...”

Spock’s voice wasn’t its glib matter of fact monotone. He had spoken the word softly, the words spoken in a hushed timbre that seemed inappropriately intimate.Jim felt the sudden overwhelming desire to look away. It felt wrong to look Spock in the eye, indecent. His cheeks heated as he realized he was feeling something that he hadn’t been made to feel by anyone but M’Ress and 33. 

He held Spock’s gaze despite his discomfort, waiting for him to continue. He watched as Spock’s lips parted, then closed, his entire body going rigid once again and his eyes losing their peculiar light as his gaze flitted from Jim’s own to a spot just above his left shoulder. Jim watched Spock’s face grow suddenly austere once again. He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and managed to tear his eyes from Spock to look quickly over his shoulder. 

There, in the doorway, was shy-looking Andorian boy. His long white hair fell over one eye as he ducked his head into the room. He clutched the strap of his shoulder bag, obviously uncomfortable, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Um, should I...I can come back?”

Jim turned back to Spock. Their eyes met briefly before Jim turned his back decisively and began to head toward the door, responding before Spock got the chance. 

“Oh, man, I didn’t realize the time. I just had a couple questions.” He kept his voice airy and pleasantly neutral. “Don’t mind me, I’m just heading out.” 

Jim stepped past the vaguely confused looking cadet as he walked toward the doorway, suddenly fighting a strange urge to look back. He squashed the feeling quickly, refusing to halt as he left, focused on keeping his footsteps light and his pace even until he turned the corner. 

-xXX-

Jim watched his feet for the entirety of the walk to Medical, so lost in thought that he nearly missed the entrance completely and had to double back several steps. His mind was overstimulated to the point that he felt almost serene. The usual insistent, frenetic hum of thoughts and emotions had coalesced into a roaring buzz like a tidal wave of static. Aloft in the dazed sea of bemusement, however, was the image of Spock’s eyes. 

Those deep, calculating eyes had betrayed nothing as they’d spoken. Spock had watched him stammer and cajole without the slightest hint of interest or acknowledgement, taking him in as blithely as one would drifting clouds. But the look in his eyes after Jim had pleaded with him in Vulcan was haunting. Somehow, with a single word and the slightest shift in countenance, Spock had communicated a complex array of emotion that had left Jim--of all people--speechless. Spock’s gaze had left him pinned, captive to the very next iota of movement or expression. The entire exchange had felt so incredibly foreign and discomfiting, and yet, the part of it that lingered most in Jim’s mind was the odd weight of its baffling familiarity.

Jim let his legs carry him back to the door to Med Bay and inward, his mind still attempting to make sense of the yawning, hissing chasm of static left there. He glanced up to look where he was going and continued maneuvering around the honeycomb-like structure of practice labs and examination rooms toward Bones’ office. His shoes clicked against the gleaming floor with a sharp staccato, an answering beat to the pulsing beginning at the base of his skull. Jim let his eyes drop back down to examine the familiar pattern in the linoleum as he turned a corner. He counted the slate colored tiles as he walked, desperate for something to break the monotonous droning in his head, until they ended abruptly at the door to Leonard McCoy’s apparently empty office. 

A quiet sigh left Jim’s lips. Of course. Why would my best friend be readily available to comfort me poorly when I needed him? The exasperated thought cut through his aching mind, and was answered moments later by another. You mean your best friend the doctor who’s busy doing 50 physicals so you could try your hand at some cockamamie scheme to get back into the Academy? The thought pulsed through his head on the tail of a lance of pain that seemed to punctuate the point. Jim pinched the bridge of his nose firmly to quiet his aggravating yet accurate conscience. 

“Cockamamie? I’m turning into Bones,” he murmured to himself before letting out his breath in a hard sigh. 

Turning slowly from the empty office, Jim took several more steadying breaths before heading out to find the man in question. He tucked his hands into his pockets as he started out toward the storage room where he’d seen Bones a few days before, angrily rearranging in the wake of his own unproductive meeting with Spock. If he knew Bones--and he did--the doctor would likely be in the same place he’d been before, swearing up a storm because some idiot had done some idiot thing in an idiot fashion that only he could rectify. His spirits lifted at the image of his closest friend grumbling and swearing at a litany of pointy metal objects. He lifted his chin slightly as he walked, hope softening his heart and step. 

-xXx-

About ten minutes of wandering later, Jim walked into storage and halted abruptly, recoiling at the overpowering smell of antiseptic assaulted him. God, I will never get used to that, he thought. Nose still twitching, he ventured into the labyrinthine hall. He sidled through the cramped and ill-lit corridors, doing his best as usual not to make direct eye contact with the wicked-looking implements glinting on the rows and rows of steel shelves and magnetized partitions. Jim had been ambling through the long, narrow walkways for some time when he began to hear voices coming from somewhere only a few tight corners away. 

“--hardly believe he’s Amanda’s son. She’s the best teacher I’ve ever had. That woman is warmer than a wool sweater in the desert. How could he possibly have ended up like that?”

Jim recognized the soft, disapproving voice of Chrissy Chapel. Nurse Cadet Chapel to you, he heard Bones’ voice crow in the back of his mind. He wasn’t usually one for eavesdropping, personally preferring the more direct approach to settling gossip, but from his current place in the near catacombs of Bones’ medical storage, he couldn’t quite pinpoint from where exactly the voice was coming. With a shrug he continued his gradual progress toward where he thought he’d seen Bones a few days prior. He had only taken a few more cautious steps when he heard another, more familiar voice that he identified immediately. 

“I imagine he gets it from his father. Typical,” Uhura said in a derisive tone that may or may not have piqued Jim’s interest in the slightest. “Vulcans, you know.” 

At that, Jim’s brows furrowed. No way. What were the odds that he’d overhear an entire conversation about the exact man he had scurried away from not a half hour ago? Then again...how many Vulcans are there enlisted in the Academy right now? He shook his head at the unlikelihood of it all and turned a corner, careful not to snag his elbow, and was surprised to hear Uhura’s voice louder and less muffled, as if she were standing only a few feet away. 

“And it’s not like growing up as Sarek’s son would would do much to curb that ego of his.”   
“But think about it, Nyota,” Chrissy’s voice had softened considerably, but her words grew clearer with each of Jim’s careful steps. “A Vulcan-human hybrid in that bunch of xenophobic academics? And in the spotlight all the time? Growing up in the shadow of the first Vulcan ambassador to Starfleet, it’s no wonder he turned to stone. Under that much pressure, it’s a marvel he didn’t turn into a diamond!” 

Jim froze in place, his body snapping taut as a bowstring. He couldn’t believe his ears. His heart shot off, galloping in his chest. No. No, that’s not...it can’t. I just…

“What?!” He was helpless to stop the word from blurting out of him, and the volume of his own voice shocked him. 

A startled sound interrupted the quiet laughter that had followed Chrissy’s last statement, and Jim winced at the sudden realization that he must seem like some kind of creeping lurker who had been listening in on the two women. He shuffled his feet quickly in the direction that he was now (relatively) sure the voices had come from until he shouldered his way into the central area of the storage room, nearly stumbling into view and into Chapel herself. 

“Jim!” She squeaked, her face already gaining color. “What are you--Oh, I didn’t--I’ll go get Dr.--” 

“What are you doing here, Kirk?” Uhura cut in, silencing Chrissy’s stammering with a decisive flick of her ponytail. “Jumped straight from faking tutoring lessons to spying?”

“No!” Jim said indignantly before the situation could fully settle on him. “I was looking for Bones, I--You’re the one in here gossiping about Sp--” 

Uhura rolled her eyes, crossing her arms across her chest. “That’s none of your business. Now what were you really doing here? And none of your games or I’ll turn you in myself for being on campus.” 

Jim resisted the urge to roll his own eyes. “I told you. I was looking for Bones. I suddenly came to owe him a sizeable number of hours of filing, so I needed to find him so I--”

“And just how did you “come to owe him” filing? I would think you’d be the last person he’d want to spend hours doing tedious work with.” 

A tight twist of nerves clutched Jim’s stomach. “Really?” He asked, feigning lightness in his tone to cover the tremor that was very nearly eeking out between his suddenly clenched teeth. “Wouldn’t you want someone clever and charming to accompany you if you had hours of boring work to do?” 

“Yes,” Uhura snapped. “But I asked why he wanted you.”

“Nyota,” Chrissy hissed softly, her cheeks still darkening. “Come on, let him alone. I’m sure it was an accident, right, Jim?”

Before Jim could answer, Chapel continued, her voice coming out in a flustered chirp. “And don’t mind the gossip. It’s been quite a day around here. Well, a few days, really, he’s just so--well, we didn’t mean any harm by it.” 

Uhura snorted and looked ready to say that she meant every bit of harm she could when Jim pounced on his opportunity to finally get some answers. 

“Of course not, Chrissy; you’d never hurt a fly,” Jim said quickly, ignoring the pointed look of disbelief from Uhura. “Now, a new Vulcan science officer on the other hand…”

A pretty little giggle slipped from Chapel’s lips, her eyes darting to the floor and back up in a very fetching way that would have made Jim’s heart speed up if doing so wouldn’t have killed him at the moment. He clenched a hand around the metal shelf beside him, letting the material cut into his palm to diffuse the panic that was threatening to climb up his throat and devour him hold. He smiled his signature Jim Kirk grin at Chapel to ply her and keep from showing how tightly his jaw was clenched. 

“Well…” Chapel’s eyes flashed at Uhura, who shrugged aggressively and crossed her arms tighter, then back at Jim and his grin. “He came by to do inspections on Med Bay regulations or some other such thing. He really go under Leonard’s skin, and sent all the Nurse Cadets scurrying around for this and that, even me, for patient files and inspection notes. It was a madhouse.” 

Jim tried his best to look sympathetic. 

“It took the past few days to get everything he wanted all in order, up to his specifications. Then we got hit with all of these instructor physicals, out of nowhere.” 

Jim tried even harder, even mustering a guilty nod. 

“It really has been very frustrating for the Med Bay staff. That’s when I ran into Nyota, and then we got to talking, you know, and...well, that man!” The spots of color at the apples of Chrissy’s cheeks darkened. “Honestly, he has no sense of decorum. I’d have thought his father would’ve taught him a thing of two.” 

Jim’s heart lurched in his chest, and another shooting pain rocked up from the base of his skull. He could feel sweat beginning to bead along his spine. He swallowed to coat his suddenly dry throat. 

“His father? Someone worth nothing?”

Uhura made a disgusted sound and dropped her harms from her chest to her hips. “I don’t know, Kirk. Ambassador Sarek is Vulcan’s first ever emissary to Starfleet. His marriage to a human was the first recorded in Vulcan history, a singularly momentous occasion in interstellar and Starfleet history. But since it wasn’t really talked about too much in Playboy I’m not surprised you hadn’t heard about it.”

On instinct, a rebuttal defending his tastes in antique adult periodicals gathered on Jim’s tongue, but it died there seconds later, poisoned by the acid panic that dried his mouth and turned it sour. No. Jim felt his heart rate bottom out in a painful way, his breaths catching and grating against his lungs. No, no, no. His stomach felt like it was sliding in icy circles inside his torso, kissing each of his organs in time with a sickening chill. No. It can’t be. It just fucking can’t. 

As if bidden by his assertion, memories rose in Jim’s mind like a flock of wild, pecking birds. He was bombarded by the ghostly apparition of 33’s voice, of the glowing green words on his console. They snatched at him, bit by bit, until he had no choice but to recognize the incomprehensible image that they were creating in his panic-stricken brain. Betrothed--Mixed species--Public record--My house---Renown--My father--Diplomat--Teacher--Half human--Do in fact feel. 

Jim felt a panicked breath hitch in his chest and tear from his lips before he could stop it. He saw Chrissy’s lips moving, but the thundering sound of blood crashing in his ears muted her voice. Another of what could only be a sob lurched out of his chest. Uhura reached a hand out toward him, slowly, as if toward a wounded animal, and Jim jerked backward. His hand, growing damp with sweat, slipped out of its deathgrip on the metal shelf and slid across some errant sharp edge. He felt the warm wetness of blood mingle in his clammy fist before he felt his skin tear. Clutching his hand to his chest, Jim scrabbled backward, propelling himself clumsily away from Chapel and Uhura. His eyes began to sting and he knew he wouldn’t be able to maintain what little composure he had left if he let the tears gathering there fall. Casting a stricken look down at his hand and back up to the two women still trying to speak to him, Jim squeezed his eyes shut and turned, running back through the maze of shelves as quickly as he could, jarring tools and materials loudly in his wake. 

Uhura turned quickly to look at Chrissy, who looked helplessly back at her, face devoid of the playful pink that had filled her cheeks moments before. 

“He looked like he saw a ghost,” she said, her soft voice nearly trembling with concern. 

“No,” Uhura said firmly. She breathed in and blew it out quickly, trying and failing to relax her face, which had pinched into a bemused mask of concern.“Kirk isn’t afraid of ghosts.” 

“Well, he’s afraid of something, that’s for sure.” 

Uhura nodded slowly. “You’re right.” She dropped her hands from her hips to ball at her sides as she peered after the path that Jim had torn toward the exit. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man I know this took roughly hundred years, and I wish I could say that chapter 7 won't take as long but uh ^^; Either way, I'm not giving up on this story no matter what! Thanks for joining me and I hope you enjoy a nice cliffhanger!
> 
> (1) "Please. I need your help."


End file.
